Lunch Box Mom

Can You Teach An Old Dog New Tricks?

2011-10-02T21:22:00.000-04:00

In this case, of course, the dog would be me.

Whether or not I am old depends on your perspective, but in dog years I am 259.

And twice a week, for much of the fall, I head to night school. The class is a requirement of my new job. It’s part of an alternative route to becoming certified to teach in the public schools for those of us who spent our undergrad and graduate years meeting requirements that had nothing to do with the real world.

In my case that was by design; I was studying theatre.

Now I am studying the art of teaching.

It’s been about ten years since I was a student (at NYU’s School of Continuing Education) and even longer since I felt, as I do now, that I am new at something. I am not inexperienced at teaching, but I am to this kind of teaching—the jargon, the acronyms, the trends in philosophy that define this moment in education.

Perhaps it's the nature of the class I am taking but I often ask myself: am I still a good student?

Unlike my experience as a student before, this time around I am a mother. And that means that in a lot of ways I embody the traits of a slacker.

I arrive to class late. I drink out of a mysterious thermos. I reach for my cell phone.

I have my reasons, if not excuses. I'm often late because I'm handing the kids off to a baby sitter. As for the thermos, it was more of a sippy, and that was because my water bottle was lost. And I needed to use my cell phone to text the sitter to make sure the stove was off.

Yet, somehow, despite all signs to the contrary, I know I am understanding, absorbing, and learning as well as I ever did.

A study released this past summer, and discussed on the webiste ScienceDaily, might explain some of that. While it didn’t look at the distractions that come with being a student and mother of two young kids, it did look at the difference between young and old brains when it comes to learning new things. Researchers at the University of Montreal found:

“Funny enough, the young brain is more reactive to negative reinforcement than the older one. When the young participants made a mistake and had to plan and execute a new strategy to get the right answer, various parts of their brains were recruited even before the next task began. However, when the older participants learned that they had made a mistake, these regions were only recruited at the beginning of the next trial, indicating that with age, we decide to make adjustments only when absolutely necessary. It is as though the older brain is more impervious to criticism and more confident than the young brain," stated Dr. Monchi.”

I don’t think I am as old as the participants recruited for this study, but I feel light-years away from the young college student I once was. Whether it's slacking, or multi-tasking, or juggling, the result is I am an old dog (or thirty-something mother) learning something new. The only way to do that is to have a few tricks of one's own.

I am not sure how the researchers define mental confidence, but I can say that not understanding something the first time around, or even getting it wrong, does not bother me anymore. And that's not because I'm a slacker; it's because I am a mother.

A few years ago, the economic downturn prompted an increase in adults going back to school. About.com had an article with 5 Tips for Going Back to School as an Adult. The one commodity needed to achieve most of these goals is one that can be managed but not created: time.

How Anyone Does It...

2011-09-25T21:06:00.000-04:00

One of the most interesting things about reading Lisa Belkin’s Motherlode column a few weeks ago, and Stephen Holden’s review, both in The New York Times and both in one way or the other about the movie, I Don’t Know How She Does it, was their discussion of what’s changed in the ten years since the book was a best seller.

Belkin notes the adaptations the movie has made to be more current, especially with regard to parenting. There are the changes in technology (the instant communication provided by a BlackBerry); the “kinder” portrayal of men (whose roles and desires in the work/family balance have evolved she suggests) and then the new ending –spoiler alert--in which the main character creates a version of having it all that is, arguably, more reflective of 2011.

Stephen Holden’s film review, in contrast, is about how the movie “seems stuck in the past.” The film’s star, Sarah Jessica Parker, in his description, embodies both Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw and the movie’s main character, Kate Reddy, in a case of what he calls “Parkeritis”.

The condition is fatal only to a film, evidently, and means the star brings with her the ethos of an era in which “Ms. Parker was in her early 30’s, and well before Sept. 11, two wars and a major recession dampened American exuberance.”

We are, Holden makes clear, no longer in the glory years.

But, by Belkin’s account, as mothers and wives and women with jobs, perhaps we finally are.

What has happened in the past ten years?

I can’t speak to the book or the movie, but I was interested in hearing the marriage historian Stephanie Coontz interviewed last May. Looking at what she described as longitudinal studies of women, both working and stay-at-home, she says the mommy wars are over.

What really matters is that a woman is doing what she really wants to do, and that her employment is one that is “high quality.” Kids are happier if a mother is happier, and those two standards were seen as protecting a mother from unhappiness or depression.

Over the past five weeks, I’ve moved from stay-at-home mom to full-time working-outside-the-house mom.

My husband takes the kids to school, a seminary student walks our dog, teachers fill our girls’ days with purpose, and a college baby sitter rounds out dinner and bath time on evenings when I take my night class.

I Don’t Know How She, or for that matter anyone does it.

Right now, it takes a team.

In Holden’s review of I Don’t Know How She Does it, he criticized Parker for bringing too much of her former character and spirit to her current role. It’s probably a fair critique for him to make of an actor.

But I felt bad for the person, mother, and working woman behind the critique.

Throughout our transformations, we, unlike a Hollywood actress, don’t have to completely reinvent ourselves, or pretend that whatever we’ve been doing for the past ten years (staying at home, working outside of it) never happened.

Maybe that, in keeping with Belkin’s more optimistic view of the way things are now, is another good thing about being a parent in 2011.

Engagement

2011-09-11T21:50:00.000-04:00

Diamonds are forever but the little prongs that hold them into place are far less eternal. Two of mine gave out about a month ago, breaking off cleanly from the side of my engagement ring and taking with them the half-moon diamond that had hugged the exalted sapphire to their side. I would have searched my car, my house, and every blade of grass between the two had I not known, in my gut, where the diamond most likely was: the isle of Manhattan. We’d just returned from a weekend in the city, an urban haystack for the most expensive needle I could have lost.

I am not sentimental about objects but as I’ve tried to get this little diamond replaced, I’ve had to face the fact that it had symbolic meaning.

My husband, Tom, pulled that diamond, and the ring of which it was a part, out of his pocket on September 15, 2001.

Five nights before, on September 10, I had been finishing up work on a story during my stint at CBS NEWS/48 Hours. I was in Florida and needed to get back to New York City but my plane in Tallahassee had mechanical problems. A call to Tom and I got a pep talk.

I flew on to Atlanta.

The next flight, if I could get on it, would get me into New York late that night. I was tired and superstitious, and considered staying in Atlanta and catching a flight early the next morning.

Tom convinced me to get home as soon as I could.

I remember several details about that flight home to New York on September 10, 2011. An unusual bomb-detecting wand at security in Florida, the cockpit door the pilots had left open until we were practically taking off, and the raucous, intoxicated atmosphere on what felt like a party-plane that I rode from Atlanta into Newark in the darkness of night.

And I remember a feeling of relief when I finally saw Tom and his shoebox apartment, and the little fish in his aquarium we’d just given names to.

The next morning I took a cab across town to my apartment and dropped off my bags. I needed to go downtown to my old voting precinct to vote in the mayoral primary.

I don’t know if it was the obligation I felt to get to work on time, or the lessening of pressure I felt to fulfill my civic duty that came with the distraction of falling in love, as I’d been doing that summer, but I never hopped the train downtown to vote that morning.

At 8:46 am, I was in an office building at West 57^th instead of somewhere south of Canal Street.

The next weekend we’d intended to head to Washington, DC to see my folks.

We stayed in New York instead. And, somehow, on that Saturday, September 15, made our way past suits of armor and tapestries and up to the top of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After days of feeling the erosion of everything that was knowable, Tom took me to a place that was a reminder of what was enduring.

The atmosphere in New York was still heavy with a grieving, mystified uncertainty. But Tom took out the ring and asked me to marry him, with a sense of calm, that was then, as it is now, unshakable.

So, my little diamond, the rebel who has broken free from the trio of stones that have sat together for the past decade, it seems you have returned to Manhattan.

You’re a silly thing to miss, especially on a day like today. But, for me, and perhaps other husbands and wives who've felt stronger because of the love, glimmering or internal, that their spouse has given them, you’re a good thing to remember.

Stirred But Not Shaken

2011-09-04T19:50:00.001-04:00

The garbage truck that made a special Saturday pick up in advance of Labor Day only made it half way down my street; it was apparently too full or overtaxed to finish the job. House after house had stacked the curb with black bags and torn up, water drenched carpet, warped furniture and other objects from basements that had seen too much of Hurricane Irene.

We lost power at 2:59am last Sunday morning, a fact announced quite loudly by my six year old who seemed kinesthetically in tune with the weekend’s storm, and marked by a stove clock that stopped ticking when the power failed.

August had come in like a lion and out like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Thunderstorms, an earthquake, and finally a hurricane. The last, of course, being less of a surprise thanks to meteorologists who were following its path.

But waiting for Irene to arrive felt a bit like closing your eyes and asking for a punch. Who knew when or where or how intense it would be when it finally came?

I prepared by going to the store three times, each time somehow forgetting the essential characteristic of nonperishable food, particularly what the prefix “non” suggests. I am accustomed to snow storms when having a gallon of milk on hand is a boon, not one more thing that inevitably gets poured down the drain.

I shouldn’t cry over spilled milk.

We were somehow spared what others were not. Perhaps having our roof leak and then our basement doused with water from a sewer line failure three weeks ago fulfilled part of our quotient of August angst.

We know some who still don’t have power; we’ve read about a local man who died by being swept into a sewer from rushing water and a rescue worker killed after an attempted recovery of a stranded vehicle. We see others, perhaps half of our neighbors, who after getting a foot or two of water in their basements are throwing out water-logged memories. Daily commutes have been detoured; trains to New York suspended. And, then there was the tree we saw stretching its way across Main Street, holding on by its deep roots lest it finish its fall into the house it had looked out on for probably the last hundred years.

We spent our 36 hours without power listening to a battery operated radio, reading books by windows, paying bills by candle light, and trying, in vain, to explain why the nightlight in my three year old’s bedroom would not be working. I fell asleep wishing I’d had a shower, but happy to hear the sound of voices outside the window, neighbors chatting on porches instead of isolated in front of their TV’s.

When the power came back, I retrieved a voice message from our water company warning that power to the treatment plant was still down so we were to limit our use to only essential needs. Seeing someone’s sprinkler system shooting water onto an already drenched lawn a few hours later, I had to think our pre-programmed gadgets had not gotten the message.

But we humans had. By natural disaster standards, we had gotten off easy. But experiencing the fringe effects of an earthquake and hurricane within the same week has been a reminder that we live on a planet not only a street.

There is sedimentary evidence of hurricane action in New Jersey from the year 1278, and, it turns out my region has not only had small earthquakes before, we had one earlier this summer, according to a story in my local paper.

No one seemed to notice.

I think the past few weeks have stirred us to a new understanding.

Pop Culture Osmosis or How My 6 Year Old Heard About Justin Bieber

2011-08-21T20:08:00.007-04:00

Distinguished readers, colleagues, mom and dad. Thank you for joining me today as I present my research on the theory of pop culture osmosis, also referred to as, How My 6 Year Old Heard About Justin Bieber. In the interest of clarity I'd like to note that although it’s reported that many two to four year olds say Justin Beaver, it is the same Bieber about whom we speak, and who shall henceforth be referred to as JB.

First, I’d like to establish the fact that at no time did my husband or I speak about JB in our house, play his music, or put his autobiography, First Step 2 Forever on request for interlibrary loan.

A simple hacking into my iTunes library will prove that my pop culture literacy blossomed with Natalie Merchant’s debut solo album and pretty much stayed there. While my husband’s musical tastes are more expansive, he has informed me that he’d rather listen to Selena Gomez.

It is possible that our six year old turned on the television without our knowledge and accessed a channel featuring JB but we highly doubt it; certainly her three year old sister would have tattled.

We therefore conclude that it is due to external contact, i.e. association with peers who do know about JB, that our daughter was exposed and now indoctrinated in the adoration of JB. Symptoms of this exposure reached a feverish peak last Thursday, August 18 while eating a plain bagel with cream cheese, when she said, “Mom do you know who Justin Bieber is? He sings Dynamite. And I want an iPod.” (*We've been informed that JB doesn't actually sing this song, but as long as she and her friends think he does that fact is irrelevant.)

What is noteworthy, however, is the hierarchy of the transmission which starts, we believe, in households with tweens or teens.

To be influential, these tweens or teens must have younger siblings with whom they love to spend time or detest. In either case, the younger sibling will dote upon the oldest and assume his or her musical taste.

This younger sibling is then sent to play with his or her peer group and brings with him or her knowledge (accurate or not) of the life and culture of the older age-set. This youth may even be an early adaptor of gadgetry, given an iPod, for example, so he will not break an older sibling’s or worse, learn how to use it more adeptly in front of them.

This younger, culturally advanced sibling is a transmitter of fads and knowledge and gains status as the gatekeeper of what’s to come. No doubt this trend explains our own youngest daughter’s playground talk during which she’s been known to trash-talk "Sesame Street" in favor of her sister’s preference, "The Electric Company."

We believe the JB exposure was gradual, but that our six year old finally connected JB to a piece of music and the versatility of an iPod to play such music ad nauseum when she was tossed into a mixed aged pottery class because of the astonishingly poor judgment and discretion of her naive and foolish mother, me.

Not only were there multi-aged siblings in attendance, there was a tween, and perhaps a teen, creating the perfect storm of access, interest, and very bad odds for the instructor.

After four days, knowledge of JB eased into the susceptible membrane of our six year old’s pop culture knowledge base as naturally as water into an area of higher solute concentration.

As with many things, we have been told that exposure breeds inoculation, and that within a year or two our six year old will fight off JB in favor of something more shocking. We can only hope. At present, the obsession is so complete that music not even sung by JB is now being attributed to him despite intervention.

In conclusion, while JB adoration may be a passing fad, we believe pop culture osmosis is here to stay.

On a side note, if anyone does have a copy of First Step 2 Forever, I have a friend who says she’d like to read it.

Photo Credit: Wikimedia Commons, posted by Daniel Ogren.

PS: Readers might remember the story I did on Danielle Gletow, the founder of One Simple Wish, an organization that grants wishes, or requests, to children in foster care. This September 24 at 6pm One Simple Wish is holding an evening to honor foster children and celebrate supporters who've helped them grant over 1,600 wishes. Local folks who might want to attend this night at the Trenton War Memorial can find more information about A Night of 1000 Wishes by clicking here.

Postcards From the Edge

2011-08-14T22:05:00.001-04:00

The number of emails a person can handle a day is said to be about fifty, according to a 2010 survey commission by an email provider Intermedia.

Last week, as we headed west from New Jersey on a two day drive to Fontana Village, North Carolina, I handled close to zero.

That was because the only network I had deep in the Smoky Mountains was one formed by the relatives we’d traveled so far to see; Verizon’s web of connectivity was lost somewhere in the North Carolina dust.

To be without Internet and cell reception for four to five days is no heroic accomplishment, but it is different, at least for me. There was one spot in the Village that had Wi-Fi and cell reception and I asked to go there one time especially. “I just need to call the guy who’s building our fence,” I told my husband, “to remind him he can’t reach us.”

The irony did not escape me, nor did the fact that even if the builder could reach us, what good I’d be to him hundreds of miles away should he hit a pipe or knock a tree into our house was questionable.

Still, this was my first lesson in disconnecting: I felt an obligation to explain my absence.

The other thing I learned was that when a phone’s primary purpose is rendered ineffective, it’s ancillary ones seem less urgent. The result: I didn’t tote the phone around to take pictures, and now, looking back, I have memories, but few photographs.

If I didn’t miss email, or too much of Facebook and the Internet, there was one moment when having the ability to use cell phones felt like a security blanket we’d forgotten to pack. I missed it when we dropped our kids off at my parent’s cabin and went five minutes down the mountain to a little recreation center to watch a black and white documentary on the building of the local dam.

How, I wondered, would my mom reach us if she needed to?

Ah, yes, a landline. I seemed to remember those....

How quickly older forms of communication seem ancient. I thought of the box I was given a few months after my grandmother’s death, a Mi Choice Chocolates from Bunte of Chicago. Inside were about a hundred postcards once belonging to her mother, my great-grandmother Ceil.

I’d hoped to follow a love story, or get a glimpse into the saga of her family’s life reading the postcards. What I learned was that these notes, at least in her circle, were the text messages of our world. And I don't mean the kind that make headlines and bring down political careers.

No, these were more like post-it notes, or quick little voice mails. Just enough to say, days after the fact, that “we’d made it home,” or invite someone to “come on down” for a visit.

According to a website on postcard history, the cards I have from 1909 to 1915 represent some of the advancements in the peak of postcard communication.

Souvenir Postal Cards entered the scene in the late 1890’s, but the novel “divided back” post card with a special section for an address as well as personal note arrived in 1907. And it’s these that fill most of my great-grandmother’s collection. She was born at the turn of the century, meaning that just as the teens of today turn to their G4, Ceil turned to her fancy cards.

Postmark December 30, 1909

We received yours and tell mama to write and give me her address, for she says you have moved. From Mr. & Mrs. Jackson

Postmark June 30, 1914

Dear Cecilia,

We got home safe and hope you got home safe too. Best Regards to All. From Edwin Miller

Postmark January 15, 1915

Dear Cousin Celie,

Received your letter but I’m sorry to say that we are going to Stella’s Birthday party Sat. with Irma. Sun. afternoon to Fort Thomas to her aunts. If I am home next Sat. will let you know and you can come down Fri. after school and then we will go to town Saturday afternoon. With love from Elsie. Tell your Ma and Pa to come down.

I can image how excited my fifteen year old great-grandmother would have been to get a note from her cousin and that she probably sat down to write her back later that day, sending her communication the fastest way she could, then checking the mail every day to see if there was news.

While she undoubtedly wished her messages could be conveyed even more swiftly, now it seems we have to take ourselves deep into the mountains or swim against a broadband of access to slow it down just a bit.

Then again, maybe I'll buy some 29 cent stamps and start writing postcards.

Video, featuring a few of my great-grandmother's postcards.

This Week...

2011-08-08T21:14:00.000-04:00

This week I am on vacation, which means the title of this post should actually be 'Next Week', because that is when I will return with a new Lunch Box Mom post. After 97 consecutive weeks it's both hard and easy to take a week off. Back again with a new post on August 14th.

What To Expect: How About a Book

2011-08-01T09:09:00.001-04:00

What to Expect When You’re Expecting is such a standard reference book for pregnant women it’s easy to forget that someone actually wrote it.

Amazon says the book is, “a perennial New York Times bestseller and one of USA Today's 25 most influential books of the past 25 years. It's read by more than 90% of pregnant women who read a pregnancy book--the most iconic, must-have book for parents-to-be, with over 14.5 million copies in print.”

These days, the website is also a hit, with the second-largest audience of moms-to-be online. Still, it was the book that I kept on my nightstand for both of my pregnancies. I’d alternate between reading it and thinking about the child developing within me and turning to a book of baby names, thinking about how this individual would be identified by the world once she was born.

What to Expect is exhaustive, but for the nine months I read it, I didn’t realize it had solved the baby name search, too. I discovered that several months after my oldest was born when I finally took a closer look at the cover of the book, a page I’d skipped over when I was eager to get to the chapters within.

The name we had sought was right there all along. We found it, however, a different way, joking with my grandfather who would ask, "How is Heidi doing?" whenever I called during my pregnancy. One day my husband and I looked at each other and said, “Well, why not Heidi?”

So, Heidi it was and Heidi it is.

And it’s Heidi Murkoff whose name you’ll find on the cover of What to Expect When You’re Expecting.

If you’re expecting, or know someone who is, and think they’d like to name their child Sharon (the co-author listed on the cover), send me an email. I don’t usually do give-aways, but when Heidi and her crew asked, I thought I could make an exception.

What to Expect When You’re Expecting, 4th edition

What to Expect: The Second Year. You're braver than I was if you want to read about the second year before it happens, but if you do, let me know. They'll give away one of these, too. And, What to Expect: The First Year goes to Jessica Provenz, a reader, writer, and new mother, who, I think, managed to comment on a blog post while in labor.

From the emails I get, I'll pick the winners out of a hat on Wednesday of this week and then I expect to get back to non-give-away life as we know it.

Nearly Extinct: The Jungle Gym

2011-07-24T20:38:00.003-04:00

A few days after I wrote about my family’s trip to the ER, a story by John Tierney in The New York Times, “Grasping Risk in Life’s Classroom” sent the clear message that it was time to head back to the playground. Never mind that most of my children’s boo boo’s have occurred at home, the real point of the article was that taking risks at the playground, especially by climbing high, had an “anti-phobic effect.”

Doorknobs in my book are still wily little devices, but monkey bars? Evidently, letting a child test her skills and assess her own ability ten feet off the ground was just the thing.

“Risky play mirrors effective cognitive behavioral therapy of anxiety,” the article states, quoting an article by Dr. Ellen Sandseter and Leif Kennair that was published in the journal Evolutionary Psychology.

The psychologists conclude: Paradoxically, we posit that our fear of children being harmed by mostly harmless injuries may result in more fearful children and increased levels of psychopathology.

One object that has been a casualty in the controversial attempts to make playgrounds safer, the article notes, is the classic jungle gym. And its absence is what I noticed most when I returned to the playground scene with my own kids after a twenty year hiatus. Decades of transformation had driven my favorite feature to near extinction.

Why?

Not only had there been “parental concerns, federal guidelines, new safety standards set by manufacturers,” but there was also what Tierney describes as the “most frequently cited factors—fear of lawsuits.”

I decided to take a look at the playgrounds in my area in a quixotic search for the Mount Olympus of my youth, an old fashioned jungle gym. Perhaps someday we will make a pilgrimage to one of the few parks in New York City whose classic jungle gyms have been preserved, but in the meantime, we took advantage of the heat advisory and dearth of activity at the playgrounds to capture some early morning images.

Along the way, we discovered one place of play whose potential for risk and adventure has remained untouched.

If the video does not load, you can find it on the Lunchboxmom YouTube channel by clicking here.

We Interrupt this Summer for a Trip to the ER

2011-07-17T20:51:00.001-04:00

It’s not my imagination; summer brings more trips to the Emergency Room. According to an article from Prevention posted on MSN, hospitals have an 18 % increase in emergency room visits between the months of May and August.

If you’re interested in learning how one might avoid these trips, you can check out the tips from ER and pediatric doctors shared in the article. After that, if you’d like to know how my family ended up supporting the 18% increase, you can read this blog.

While I microwaved some hot dogs, my oldest slammed the bathroom door, believing, incorrectly, that her younger sister would get out of the way.

That about sums it up.

In the blink of an eye, ten feet away from me, in a moment of sibling squabbling, the accident occurred. The door knob, shaped more like a lever, hit the back of my three year old’s head in just the right way to cause a laceration.

One paper towel saturated in blood. Then another. And then a cloth towel. I called 9-1-1 and did a very bad job staying calm. The EMTs arrived and took us to the hospital. A kind nurse assessed the situation. A wonderful physician’s assistant followed up, saying my daughter would be fine, but she’d need some staples on the wound to help it heal.

Ten days, no swimming. And, here, “You’ll need your own staple remover. Most pediatricians don’t have them.”

I do not know how parents remain calm in the face of more serious accidents. I hesitated to even write about this incident because I did not want to suggest, in any way, that the relatively minor distress we experienced compares with the grief and uncertainty other parents may have confronted during trips to the ER.

And yet, there is value in writing about an accident such as ours. In the midst of chaos, tears, and blood, it might be a reminder that simply because the world feels as if it just got turned upside down, doesn’t always mean that it has.

My children are stronger and more resilient than I am in many ways. I braced myself every time I applied the Neosporin to the wound beneath those three staples on my three year old's head, reminded each time of how the injury happened and how vulnerable we all felt.

She, however, kept on dancing.

This very short video is a glimpse into that mindset. I intend to vlog about broader topics and not my kids in weeks to come, but because this was my first effort using imovie, I thought I’d better focus on participants who didn’t mind a “do-over” when I inadvertently forgot to push record.

If the video does not play, you can access it on the Lunchboxmom YouTube channel.

*on this blogger page, if the image does not load, but the "play button does" try clicking on the play button and image will load shortly after.

Some Thoughts on the News

2011-07-15T15:21:00.005-04:00

The most recent stories about Leiby Kletzky, the 8 year old boy who was kidnapped on his first independent walk home from camp and killed, the police say, by a man from his neighborhood, touch on a natural worry among parents: could this happen to my child?

A New York Times story, “With Boy’s Killing, Parents Confront Worst Fears” begins with what it calls the “maxims passed down for generations: Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t sit in the last car of the subway train. If you are lost, look for someone in a uniform. If something bad happens, scream! “

But there's reason to look beyond the limited protection these maxims offer to strategies that might reduce our risks, if not our fears.

That’s one of the reasons Gavin de Becker’s book, Protecting the Gift, is worth taking another look at.

I can’t do justice to the clarity of thought, analysis and blunt advice given in de Becker’s book, but two things strike me as particularly important to remember in the context of this most recent story.

First, de Becker debunks the idea that children should never speak to strangers. The book suggests that in fact, children should be taught how to select the right stranger to talk to should they be in need of help. While that sounds complex, de Becker helps us narrow things down quickly by suggesting that women, rather than men, prove to be better choices.

Second, there’s the idea of “looking for someone in a uniform”. The problem with that is that it’s hard to tell the uniform of a police officer from that of a security guard. The suspect, Levi Aron, once worked as a security guard, it’s been reported, reinforcing de Becker’s general assessment of that group.

Politically correct? No.

And nothing will explain the incomprehensible cruelty one human can inflict upon another.

But, if you want to move past the fear and take a look at some blunt strategies, I think de Becker’s book is one of the most helpful books a parent can read. Especially right now. Not only because of this heartbreaking story, but because the schedule of summer often challenges the routines and experiences we've grown accustomed to throughout the school year.

My only other thoughts on this news are those of deep sympathy for the family.

Post Script: I recently heard from a long time friend and reader who lives in Brooklyn. She wrote "I organized a collection in our neighborhood (which borders two of the neighborhoods involved) to plant a tree in Prospect Park in Leiby Kletzky's memory. Planting a tree is a Jewish tradition and the park is used by all communities in Brooklyn so we thought it would be a nice gesture. We are all so desperate to DO something." Contributions to this Prospect Park fund can be made at this site, with "Leiby Kletzky Tree Fund" noted in the comment section.

How Do You Become #1 on Amazon? Ask the Mother of Reinvention

2011-07-10T20:37:00.003-04:00

Kelly Lester and
husband, Loren Lester.

It would be one thing if Kelly Lester and her EasyLunchboxes came of age in the thriving world of social media, but what makes her story exceptional is that she first became an inventor and entrepreneur when Mark Zuckerberg was about 12. Her product then, decorative light switch covers, was made in the United Sates and sold in brick and mortar stores and museum shops.

Her website, switchplates.com was the only game in town back in 1996, when buying a domain name on the nascent World Wide Web felt like riding into an unpopulated frontier: search for switch plates and her company easily came up first.

In 2009, a few years after selling her first company, Kelly started a second. She launched the website.

“If computers had crickets, we heard crickets,” she said. "If you're not on page one or two of search engines, you don't exist."

And so began the reincarnation of a mom entrepreneur. She looked for mom bloggers to do reviews, schooled herself in Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and recently, she got her lunch boxes listed on Amazon. Last week she announced she’d conquered the mighty river of free shipping: in two months her product has became the site's number one selling lunch box.

EasyLunchboxes, containers
and cooler bag.

The story of this second innovation, a single lid bento-style lunch box, began as an obsession. She had three kids in school, three lunches to pack, and no lunch box that streamlined the process. Packing lunches was something she’d done since she was a kid, when she’d toss cheese sandwiches and some store brand Oreos into brown paper bags for her four brothers. For her own three daughters she needed something different.

“I wanted to make the same lunch for all three of them. I wanted it to all be uniformed so I didn’t have to think so hard.”

Using multiple containers (three containers and three girls equals at least nine containers a day) was driving Kelly, “absolutely insane.”

She searched in stores, on Google and Amazon but didn’t find what she was looking for. So she called plastic manufacturers in the United States. Finally she reached a man who told her what she’d need to make her own lunch box.

A mold. And $75,000.

That’s when Kelly turned to China.

She contacted a liaison in America who helped her work with a factory in China and made her EasyLunchboxes for far less than the American quote.

Instead of selling her product in stores, she focused on the website. A few months ago, an associate helped open the door with Amazon. The burden of shipping costs, something that hurts a small business such as hers, has been lightened.

“I can just send them (Amazon) thousands of pounds of product for pennies of what UPS can usually ship.”

Using her own fulfillment service and shipping without Amazon’s discounts costs the consumer $8.95. But it costs her even more.

“People want stuff for free and they want it now,” she said, describing the benefit of Amazon.

Kelly’s sourcing agent has an office in China and one not far from her in California. A third party tests the products. The polypropylene plastic is BPA-free and the cooler bags are tested for lead.

Early in the process, she had to send her shipment back three times until it came back right, meeting FDA standards, but the relationship with her overseas producer has been worth it, she says. Cost was not an irrelevant issue for her, "I'm a thrifty kind of shopper," she said, explaining what she'd look for in buying a lunch box for her own kids.

California is home to another bento style lunch box system also invented by moms but manufactured in the United States. The style is different than Kelly’s single lid system and constructed with what’s described as a durable plastic. The system also comes with a plastic water bottle. But a comparison of a price speaks to the issue consumers and mom entrepreneurs face:

EasyLunchbox system: four plastic containers and cooler bag (made in China): $21.90

Laptop Lunch B630 Bento System 2.0, (made in the US): $39.99

*Both are available for free shipping with Amazon prime.

Lunchopolis, another lunch box system on Amazon and one that has been sold at Whole Foods, explains its manufacturing on its website:

"...although we continually attempt to source manufacturing in either the United States or Canada, we have been unable to find cost effective production. We estimate that if we sourced this product in the United States, the retail price would be more than 45% higher.”

One of the few Lunch box options on Amazon with a similar style but made from stainless steel instead of plastic is LunchBots. A shopper would get one stainless steel container for around the same price as the four included with Kelly's package, but still discover the product was made in China.

Occasionally, the "Made in China" label has been a deal breaker for Kelly’s prospective customers. And, she says, she understands.

“But are you watching your big screen Hitachi?”

There have been times when the cost of working with a manufacturer in China has been steep, however.

“We sold out for three months. They just shut the power grid off." No one knew when it would be turned back on so that the factory could get back to work and finish her order.

“My hair fell out, it was very stressful.”

To avoid that scenario she said she now spends more upfront and maintains a huge stock in the United States.

Jenny (18), Lily (13) and Julia (11)

Having a large demand that can be met, of course, is the whole idea, and it’s one of the reasons she has turned to YouTube to create a series of videos. Filming and editing the video has been a major project for the Lesters, but it helps that she’s an actor, her husband Loren Lester is an actor and director, her brother is a song writer, her 13 year old is a good script supervisor and that Kelly went to UCLA with Sam Harris, a Broadway performer and recording artist. Kelly’s most recent Facebook and YouTube postings feature her two youngest kids, Lily and Julia.

“I would like to influence people to take responsibility for their eating and stop waiting for school lunch programs to get better. It makes me really happy to be able to help people pack healthy lunches for their kids,” she said.

She’s heard from one mother of an autistic boy whose sense of independence was opened up because of her lunch box system. “My lunch box was the simplest for him to use.”

With her first business, Kelly never told people she was making sales calls out of her den in her pajamas. This time around, she says she's made her home, her kids, and her personality "part of the charm."

Before my interview ended, I did take advantage of my time with an original lunch box mom to ask the all important question.

When do you have time to pack the kids’ lunches?

The key, she said, was to pack them at night, sometimes while making dinner.

She tried having her kids make their own lunches, especially as they got older. But, she said, “I like knowing they are taking something of me.....I don’t think I am the best mom in the world but I really want to feed them right, and making cute lunches...that’s not that difficult.”

In fact, making it easy, is what her lunch box is all about.

Being a small business owner, even one who has seized the power of social media, is not different from being one fifteen years ago in one important respect, Kelly mentioned.

It’s still a whole lot of work.

Click here for: Kelly's Webisode with Sam Harris and The Behind the Scenes: see what it takes.

Recently, I was contacted by a mother who had an idea for an invention. "How do you get one made?" she asked. I had no idea, which is one of the reasons why I decided to "do lunch" with Kelly Lester this week.

This is the second in a periodic series, Lunch With, profiles of Lunch Box Mom readers. I met Kelly thanks to Google Alerts, which sends me stories about "Lunch boxes and Moms". For obvious reasons, Kelly is a real Lunch Box Mom. I only stand on them, something she does not recommend with her product.

And in the interest of full disclosure, when my daughters' school asked us to stop using Ziploc bags, I bought a Lunchopolis lunch box, and a LunchBot, and now have two EasyLunchboxes. Given how many times we leave our lunch boxes at school, we seem to need a few extra.

Find Lunch Box Mom on Facebook. And, soon, YouTube, under Lunchboxmom.

American Dreamers

2011-07-04T19:59:00.001-04:00

What is the biggest problem facing kids (and their parents) today? That was the question asked of Success Magazine blog readers by relationship experts Richard and Linda Eyre .

Recently, they wrote about their results.

Of the multiple choice options, Peer Pressure, Excessive Technology and Gadgets, Bullying, Entitlement, Drugs and Substance Abuse, Sexual Experimentation, and Sibling Rivalry, A Sense of Entitlement left the other answers far behind, earning 53 percent of the responses compared to its nearest rival, Excessive Technology and Gadgets, at 16 percent.

When the Eyres, who have a book, The Entitlement Trap, due out in October, followed these results by asking if the sense of entitlement was a bigger problem for this generation of kids than with previous generations and who might be to blame, the answers were: “Yes,” it’s a bigger problem. And no need to look around parents: it’s our own fault.

Parents, “...give their kids too much, and they set a bad example.”

The responses were similar, the Eyres said, when they posed the questions to an audience in Southern California.

Could it be that the biggest threat to our children reaching their full potentials is one we’ve created ourselves? A crisis made and possibly solved within the family?

Interestingly, the family and its breakdown was one of the most popular answers to another survey, one administered not to parents but to California’s youth, and to a demographic presumably less affluent than the readership of Success Magazine.

This second survey was released by New American Media and the University of California Office of the President back in 2007. The poll reached 601 young people between the ages of 16-22 in one of the first polls to call people exclusively on their cell phones. The results are summarized in a report called: California Dreamers: A public opinion portrait of the most diverse generation the nation has known.

What did these respondents say was The Most Pressing Issue Facing their Generation in the World Today?

Family Breakdown: 24%

Violence in Neighborhoods and Communities: 22%

Poverty: 17%

Global Warming: 14%

Anti-Immigration Sentiment: 7%

Others responses

Considering one in eight of our nation’s young people lives in California and according to the report, nearly half of those are immigrants or the children of immigrants, the answers are significant especially as they relate to the attainment of something the report said the generation believes strongly in, “The American Dream”.

These young people, “harbor deep concerns about family stability, cite marriage and parenthood as life goals, and are as apt to define their identity by music and fashion taste as by the color of their skin.

Despite obstacles, they expect to create successful lives for themselves and imagine a more inclusive and tolerant society for one another. This collective optimism represents a unique source of social capital for California, and a mirror of what the U.S. is becoming as a global society. ”

The pressures weakening the family make-up that concern the young people surveyed by New American Media four years ago and whatever forces driving the parental struggle related to the epidemic of entitlement are different.

But they speak to a common idea: in our hope to attain or foster independence in the next generation, it’s the interdependence and functionality of our family life that is foremost on our minds.

The Muppet Show: Now That's Educational TV

2011-06-26T21:50:00.001-04:00

It’s hard to state the educational benefits of Pigs in Space.

And, yet, it’s possible.

But we’ll save that performance for the final act.

First, let’s talk about the rest of "The Muppet Show". Dig deep into your memory of the late 1970’s when the show ran weekly at 7:30pm. Kermit the Frog led a troop of variety show performers including the great Miss Piggy, Fozzie Bear and Rowlf the Dog, back in the day when taking a bath and getting into your jammies quickly actually meant something. If you were late, you’d miss the intro.

I was giddy when "The Muppet Show" DVD’s arrived at our house from Netflix recently. When it’s time to start the music, when it’s time to light the lights, I feel for a moment like the five year old I once was; the one who sat three inches from a Zenith and wondered how Gonzo would end the song.

But after the third sketch in which a female guest star had to fend off a monster with dubious intentions, I had to ask: Was the TV of my childhood good for my own kids?

It was a question first faced by Generation X about four years ago, when, as The New York Times reported, Sesame Street Old School was released with this warning, “These early ‘Sesame Street’ episodes are intended for grown-ups, and may not suit the needs of today’s preschool child.”

Unlike Sesame Street, "The Muppet Show" was not even made primarily for children. It ran on CBS stations in the evening a half hour before prime-time. And it was created by Jim Henson, in part they say, to break him out of the kids’ niche.

Once my youngest caught sight of Animal, however, she was smitten. Still, I wasn't so sure if I’d invite Kermit and his cast into our house again.

Then, somewhere in season one, Candice Bergen appeared as a guest. Piggy is referred to as “Ms. Piggy” and the leading pig and Bergen unite in a show of female solidarity that is both refreshing and ridiculous. It was then I realized the particulars of the era that break through the otherwise timeless comedy were the very reasons the show was good for us: this was educational TV.

The pro-social messages of Nick Junior and "Sesame Street"’s Letter of the Day have nothing on Elton John in a pink jumpsuit singing a duet with Miss Piggy. Because, just as many of us learned later that Alec Guinness played Hamlet long before Obi-Wan Kenobi , our kids may begin to see their world and its culture in a larger context. Something came before; something will come after.

Steve Martin playing the banjo—you’ll see him, kids, when you watch the remake of Father of the Bride, but as he proves with Fozzie, he was once a wild and crazy guy.

Florence Henderson: her appearance begged me to explain to my kids the premise of the "Brady Bunch" and the meaning of Marsha Brady Hair, but she’s also a link to Broadway musicals of the 50’s. One day, we’ll watch her segment on the Ed Sullivan show with her cast mates from Oklahoma!, Barbara Cook and John Raitt.

And, Candice Bergen, I promise you, my little ones, you will one day hear a professor refer to Dan Quayle’s Murphy Brown speech and thank me for our Muppet Show experiences.

The Muppets themselves reveal characteristics of archetypes. Sam the Eagle, the “self-appointed censor” of the show, speaks with absolute confidence when he scoffs at the “so called conservationists” who want to protect a group of endangered species. The list, he discovers as a bald eagle, includes his own.

Finally, we come to Pigs in Space, which, like Veterinarian’s Hospital, is a brilliant example of parody. The interesting thing will be to explain what they spoof. In a time long ago, we watched "Star Trek" and the nearly extinct genre known in daytime television as The Soap Opera.

My cousin, Ben Maraniss, a screen writing instructor at the New York Film Academy, told me about his use of "The Muppet Show" with his students.

The character Scooter, a gofer whose uncle owns the Muppet’s theatre, “comes up as a reference point with the Film Making students because, sooner or later, they all realize that their most important job is trouble shooting for their productions themselves or finding a "Scooter-type" that can do that for them.”

And, those two grumpy guys, Statler and Waldorf, who mercilessly heckle?

“They come up more often in the writing classes because their function on the show is to shoot down every act that makes it to the stage. This is what table-reads feel like at their worst.”

Not long ago, my family watched an episode with the ballet dancer Nureyev. He put on his top hat, he put on the Ritz, and then I asked my husband, “I wonder when Nureyev defected?”

And in less than a minute we went from Muppet Mania to explaining the fall of communism.

The best moments, though, are the ones when we’re all simply silent, absorbed in the show that, in most ways, never grows old.

Next week: A look at Family Values and The American Dream

There's a Card for That. Or, Maybe Not.....

2011-06-18T22:31:00.000-04:00

The third reason we celebrate Father’s Day in our house, after the more noble ones related to giving my husband his day and showing our expressions of love, relates to reciprocity. I need Mother’s Day, therefore Father’s day must be observed.

Leave it to my husband to turn the tables.

“Is there anything special you’d like?” I asked a week or so before the big day.

“Ah...” he said, “I haven’t even thought about it.”

With one deft stroke he released himself from the tacit quid pro quo I’d established.

But I wasn’t giving up. The kids and I would do something nice for him and he was going to like it.

I needed inside information and I needed it fast. I snuck off to the online pages of Esquire to glean what I could from the self-defined magazine for men.

What did the man who had everything want for himself? What would he give his own dad?

Between the photos of women in underwear, I found a few interesting articles. I got choked up reading “Ultimate Wisdom” a quick and poignant section with famous men sharing their thoughts on fatherhood. My mind and budget were blown reading “The Digital Man’s 2011 Father’s Day Guide”, a description of gadgets I didn’t know existed outside of the Jetson’s. And I spent a bit too much time clicking through “25 Perfect Ties for 25 Different Dads”. Shopping for ties was actually fun when I didn’t have to think about the suit, the job, or the reason he wore them.

I left the pages of Esquire promising I’d return again at Christmas time, something I’m sure they were thrilled to know, and considered my options. It didn’t make The Digital Man’s list, but my favorite idea vaguely fit the bill: yes, it was time to get my husband a digital meat thermometer.

Then, I looked inward. What did I...

I mean, what did my husband... really want?

Time.

For the parent of young children, nothing is more wished for than time, especially time without obligations. For my husband that would mean time to sleep, time to go for a jog, and time to drink coffee—sitting down.

I could give him that.

Especially between the hours of 8am and 2pm.

With a shortage of my own free time, I waited to call our air conditioner folks, the ones who installed the unit last year, and the only appointment they had left was at the end of July.

Or, Sunday, June 19th.

Which means during a six hour window on Father’s Day, I’ll hold down the fort and wait for our air conditioner to receive its well-child visit.

Happy Father’s Day, honey. This year we got to you 2 lbs of Puron refrigerant.

In the interest of reciprocity, perhaps my husband can spend next Mother’s Day waiting at the DMV.

All things considered, lightening the load of chores on a spouse’s to-do list sounds to me like one of the best presents of all.

*For those who worry about the state of Lunch Box Daddy (mostly his father-in-law) fear not: homemade cards, favorite food, and a promise from the girls that they really are rooting for the Red Sox, will also be given.

Summer Catalogs 2011: What's Wrong With This Picture?

2011-06-12T22:05:00.000-04:00

I don’t know what my mail carrier thought when he delivered a Victoria’s Secret and a Fisher-Price summer toy catalog to me last week, but I can tell you my reaction: this is outrageous. And, that’s what I said flipping through the one from Fisher-Price.

Actually, the one from Victoria didn’t make it into my house. Something about it seemed ridiculously out of touch with what I was looking for in a swimming suit this year. But after looking through what I thought was the innocuous toy catalog, I had a similar thought: this is not for me. And, more to the point: I don’t want my girls to see this.

What would they think looking at the photos in the Shop-at-Home Summer 2011 catalog? The first nine pages are devoted to images of boys playing with Cars (mostly Disney PIXAR Cars 2) and the accessories designed for them. After the cars, we get to an entirely male cast of Rescue Heroes, and eventually a golf tee, basketball hoop, soccer net, and batting tee, shown in the photographs to be used exclusively by boys.

In case you think I’ve just got too much time on my hands and have a chip (the homemade chocolate cookie kind) on my shoulder that is filtering my view, head to pages 26 and 27. We find mirror images of the separate worlds of role-playing featuring the “Grow-With-Me Workshop” used by two boys opposite the “Grow-with-Me Kitchen” photographed with, you guessed it, two children who are not boys.

The back half of the catalog put girls in the spotlight, along with the Grand Dollhouse, Beach Vacation Mobile Home, and pink and teal Little Mommy set for the pint-sized caretaker of multiples, complete with double stroller, duo highchair, and diaper bag.

I know a lot of boys who love cars. I know a lot of girls (my own included) who like to put dolls in bassinets and toss a toy banana and eggplant into a bowl on a mini kitchen stove and call it soup.

But these kids show interest and potential to do a lot more, too.

So, the question is not, “Why did Fisher-Price make this catalog (and some of its toys) the way it did?” But, “Why did it not choose the alternative?”

Why not have a girl somewhere in the nine pages devoted to Cars 2?

Why not have a woman Rescue Hero?

Why not show a girl using the golf tee, the basketball hoop, the soccer net, or the batting tee and why not show a boy making something in the toy kitchen or playing with a dollhouse?

In his blog post, A Teachable Moment? Cars in the Crosshairs Could Lead to a Life Lesson on the Huffington Post, Adam Benson wrote about seeing a trailer for Cars 2 on iTunes with his young son, a huge fan of Lightning McQueen. He was, he said, surprised by the amount of violence shown in the preview of the sequel but understood Disney/Pixar’s desire to keep up with the expectations of the now older audience of children who first saw the movie in 2006.

It would be great if the makers of the movie used their influence to present an “explanation or disclaimer for kids,” saying responsible gun use is a serious matter. But Benson does not put the burden of the responsibility on the movie makers alone. Explaining violence in movies or in the newspapers is his job as a parent: both he and the movie makers have an opportunity for a teachable moment.

I admired Benson’s broadminded approach to the dilemma.

So, perhaps I could enlist it as I ponder the messages within the Fisher-Price catalog which were, once I looked closely, not radically different from the ones in the Sensational Beginnings mailing that arrived around the same time. Its cover shows a boy relaxing in an Adirondak holding a toy pita wrap. Interestingly, the only people shown shopping for groceries (Metal Shopping Cart, $59.95) standing near a Red Vintage Kitchen while talking on the phone ($165.95) cleaning up (Silly Sam Broom and Dustpan, $19.95) or who have any connection to assembling that toy pita, are young girls.

Pottery Barn Kids, of course, sells gender-divided decor, the intensity of which once prompted my six year old to ask if girls were “allowed” to like Spider Man, too, but their catalog is less disturbing for one significant reason: it shows school aged girls and boys actually playing together.

In the entire Fisher-Price catalog that happens once, over a fake camp fire and some plastic marshmallows and franks.

Learning from Benson’s perspective, I could use that catalog to tell my daughters that its images are of a divided world of play based on sex-role stereotypes, ones I hope they feel free from limiting themselves to. That we actually live in a much more exciting world in which women can become mothers if they want and also race car drivers or rescue workers and men can become fathers as well as lactation specialists and cookbook authors.

Last September, Fisher-Price recalled more than ten million products because of safety concerns. Even in my most cynical moments, I never thought the problems were deliberate.

I don’t feel the same way about the messages in the summer toy catalog. And they seem at odds with the company’s own creed to provide, “Ingenuity. Inspiration. Innovation.”

Thirty-one years ago, Letty Cottin Pogrebin, a founder of Ms. Magazine and a co-creator of Free to Be...You and Me wrote in her book Growing Up Free about an experiment done in the 1970’s with preschoolers. They were shown a picture of a “...female telephone line worker on a pole with a bird upside down on the telephone wire nearby. When asked to specify what part of the picture was “not O.K” almost twice as many children mentioned only the woman line worker as mentioned only the upside-down bird.”

These kids, she concluded, were raised to believe a “...woman in a nonmothering role is not O.K..It’s worse than an upside down world.”

Which makes me think the Summer 2011 catalog is selling a mythology about children’s potential and many parents’ hopes that is, when you consider it, a giant step back.

And that is what I see as “not O.K..”

The Class of 1996

2011-06-05T21:44:00.000-04:00

Somewhere in the mix of kindergarten registration or graduation, second grade talent shows and award ceremonies, those of us who graduated from high school or college in the 1990’s are feeling the tug of our own academic past. It’s reunion season and we’re heading to a midpoint: if we were 18 or 21 when we graduated, it’s been nearly as many years since. A lifetime before—and a lifetime after.

I was thinking about that as I walked the campus of a school I didn’t even attend, but one that is now a part of my life: my husband’s alma mater, Princeton. I went to his fifth college reunion as his date. We pushed a small stroller through rain, mud and hay at his tenth. And at his fifteenth last week, he pulled our two girls in a red wagon as offspring of other members of the class of ’96 , stir crazy from long plane trips or car rides, made unannounced head dives into our kid magnet to join them.

Forget renting a convertible, if you want to make an impression at your fifteenth, bring a Radio Flyer.

Not that anyone was trying to make an impression. Most of us were just hoping to find some shade and refill our sippy cups. The kegs that would flow freely at night had not yet been tapped but there was water and Sprite and plenty of tables to string-your-own necklace (orange and black beads) or decorate your own foam visor.

My husband took us on a walk to find his freshman dorm, which was, we discovered, no longer there. But we found his old roommate and, best of all, his young daughter who reassured my six year old that being a Daisy next year would be just great.

The next generation was blooming at this 15th. They sat "crisscrossed apple sauce" or on their knees on the grass of a quad to watch a “Mad Scientist” hold dry ice. They rushed to create their own orange polymer, aka, goo, as if silly putty were a banned substance in their own homes. (Which, I learned, it should be.)

Princeton holds a weekend of Reunions, and like the alumni magazine that arrives every week, they reflect a connection between the school and its graduates that mystifies my non-Ivy eyes. Other schools have loyal alumni who give money or who follow a winning football team across the country to fill a stadium with school colors. But Princeton’s Reunions are said to be the “most well-attended college reunion in the world.” They are also, according to Wikipedia, the second largest single order of beer.

And nothing is quite like the parade through campus in order (generally) from oldest to youngest alumni, known as the P-rade.

As we gathered for this year’s P-rade, and my husband perhaps daydreamed about the blizzard of ’96 when he cranked out his senior thesis, “Options Under a Jump Diffusion Model of Stochastic Stock Price Volatility” my theatre major mind was thinking of the Seven Ages of Man.

“The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side”

The old-timers rode in on golf carts, honored for who they were and for what they represented, a living link from the past to the future. A man from the class of 1935 passed by us. He, too, had once celebrated his fifteenth reunion. That would have been in 1950.

Just before him was the class of 1986, bumped to the front because it was their 25th, the year they get their distinctive blazers. Was this Shakespeare’s third age, a soldier, or the fourth, the justice? I do not know.

But, my jaw, at least in my mind, dropped.

They walked down the path, some in their spotless blazers, some in preppy (re: 1986) rugby styled shirts, salt and pepper hair, teen aged children at their sides, strolling, walking, needing to prove nothing. No rush to tend to a crying toddler, no diaper bags weighing down their shoulders, no wondering who they were or where they were heading. They had arrived.

They made me less sad that I felt a lengthening effect of time; that the person who’d eaten a falafel sandwich from Hoagie Haven while watching her husband’s fifth reunion P-rade was fading into a past and fifteen would soon become twenty, and then in a moment, twenty-five.

Age in this parade was marching by me, and it looked good.

Not every reunion arrives in such context. They are usually isolated and not in progression. They’re not a literal line of history and connection to one place and school.

It was a reunion to see people. But the truth is Facebook lets us stay in touch with the acquaintances of our past.

It was mostly a reunion with a place of metamorphosis, the place where the juvenile became the young adult. The graduate, like an orange and black creature following an instinct, comes back once a year throughout the ages of its lifespan to feed upon some fountain of tradition. And then, it heads back into the world.

A Look at Boutique Childcare and Preschool: Grab your yoga mat and hang on to your Sippy

2011-05-29T21:39:00.000-04:00

Right Steps childcare and preschool is new in Philadelphia, but its creators Regina and John Reydler are no strangers to the business. Still, when I met them at the corner of 16th street and Locust and took a look at the mural of international landmarks stretching up the 28 foot walls of their new location’s foyer and great room, I had to think: this is their favorite child.

Not in the sense of parenting, because we parents never play favorites, but in terms of a teacher or mentor who after years of work had finally found the perfect union between their own talents and the subject in whom they could be fully developed.

Here it was, a former bank and historic landmark in the Rittenhouse Square section of the fifth largest metropolitan area in the country, minutes away from the Kimmel Center for the Arts and Philadelphia Museum of Art, in an area with an international population and a student body often coming from, as the Reydlers have discovered, bilingual homes. What better place to create their latest and most ambitious center dedicated to what they call a philosophy of “global education.”

It’s not just global, it’s trendy. And why shouldn’t it be, given it just opened and the Reydlers exude a kind of artistic panache?

I wanted to know more about Right Steps not because my own kids might be heading there, but because it sounded to me like an example of what’s to come both in the Philly area and in preschools and daycare centers around the country. My own kids are sorting beans and following the structured freedom created by Maria Montessori. I believe nonprofit Montessori schools will endure, but even I know it's been 141 years since Montessori was born.

What did a twenty-first century, urban, boutique childcare and preschool look like?

First, there’s the mural, which in some ways feels like a link to an artistic past. Philadelphia based artist John De Vlieger spent about ten months on scaffolding bringing the Eiffel Tower, St. Basil’s Cathedral, the Taj Mahal and hot air balloons to the lobby. That transformation was stalled, John Reydler told me, by a large and seemingly intractable bank vault that proved to be as secure as its builders probably intended.

Removing the vault was supposed to take “three to four days.” In the end, it took five weeks.

One flight up on an elevator, one finds a hall of classrooms. These were staged like the nursery of a couple heading into their 40th week—eager for occupants. Without them there, I had the advantage of seeing all of the eco-friendly furniture and low bookcases with translucent panels designed to allow teachers to observe the little hands working behind them. I also saw the room for infants whose new cribs and environmentally friendly mattresses reportedly sailed through a recent inspection.

The room for older children had a SMART board, and more important, a teacher who knew how to use it, and wireless headphones for a Phonemic Awareness Program.

Students will be served four meals a day made from organic and locally grown food, (changed seasonally) and designed by Jeanie Subach, a registered dietitian and board certified sports specialist dietitian who created nutrition programs for the Penn Wood and Glen Acres Schools (in West Chester, PA for those who don’t know) and who is also the nutritionist for the Philadelphia Eagles and 76ers (professional sports teams you probably do know.)

Regina Reydler has a background in elementary education and Right Steps is positioning itself to be a place of childcare (6 weeks) through Kindergarten, with a focus on education and enrichment through art, music, and yoga. They participate in Pennsylvania’s Keystone STARS, a quality rating system for early learning programs that gives publicly available ratings of schools based on a number of factors.

Brit Munsterteiger, the admissions director at St. Peter’s School in the Society Hill neighborhood of Philadelphia, about 1.4 miles from the steps of Right Steps, said a lot of parents come to her even before their kids are old enough to enroll at St. Peter’s.

“They are dual working, need the flexibility of an extended day, but are looking for an educationally based program first and daycare second. Right Steps is trying to fit that niche.”

Still, she said, “Philadelphia is not New York City in the early childhood education scene...to our benefit, it’s not the rat race feel.”

But it is a city. And one that is facing budget cutbacks and a potential change in the school district’s kindergarten program that might make the full day program a half day one. That could leave, as one article stated, 12,700 Kindergartners in need of “placement” for the rest of the day. How that affects the enrollment at a private center such as Right Steps is still to be seen.

But there was an aspect of the city environment that was apparent: security cameras in every room with footage streaming into two television panels in the director’s office. That office was a few feet away from the bank’s former conference room (soon to be parents' lounge) that had a wall of windows overlooking the muraled great room, giving even more opportunities to observe.

I was also told about the individual key cards that will be used for entry into the building, and the fingerprint check-in system that saves parents’ thumbprints and monitors drop off and pick up of students.

Along the lines of drop off, John Reydler said something that probably goes to the heart of things.

“We offer parents the opportunity to feel good about dropping their child off at Right Steps instead of feeling guilty, because they know they (the child) will be well taken care of.”

If it takes a little locally grown organic spinach served after a yoga session conducted at the banks of an artfully painted Seine just before a session on the SMART board in the Kindergarten room in order to lessen that guilt, then the Reydlers are just the people to do it.

If anyone was feeling guilt, it was this stay-at-home mom who drove home from Philly wondering if my kids are less well taken care of because I stay home to take care of them.

But, that, as we all know, is a blog post for another day.....

Daycare expenses for dual working parents are not cheap, and "boutique" childcare and preschool is billed as an alternative to hiring a nanny. So what’s the comparison? When it comes to the finances, it’s most likely less.

M-F 7:30am -6pm for Infants: $1,668.33/month or about $83.41/day

M-F 7:30am -6pm for Pre K & K: $1,538.33/month or about $76.91/day

*based on tuition information for Right Steps I received in early May.

For The Good Guys

2011-05-22T20:59:00.000-04:00

If you’re a contestant sweating your way into Final Jeopardy against a former history teacher and a Harvard Law student you might hope for one thing when Alex Trebek announces the category of question on which your fate (or cash winnings) will ride. That is, if you’ve been making your living as a translator.

And that one thing is just what Sandra Alboum got:

“Official Languages”

When she heard that announced as the Final Jeopardy category Sandra said to herself, as she explained to me in a recent interview: “There is a God.”

“This Language is an official language in around 30 countries second only to English.”

Sandra picked up her stylus and quickly wrote “Spanish” on the flat screen in front of her.

That was too easy, she then thought. And wasn’t Africa, after all, full of former colonies? And the question described the language as “an official language” not “the official language”.

Before time ran out, she changed her answer.

(If you’ve been humming the Final Jeopardy tune to yourself, it's time to wrap it up and find out what happened.)

The history teacher, it turned out, wrote "Arabic".

The guy from Harvard (smart but no Ken Jennings, in her estimation) had written "French".

She’d written French, also, and she, too, was correct.

But unlike the law student, Sandra had wagered enough to win.

She won one more game, and eventually walked away from her stint on Jeopardy with enough after taxes to save a bit and to finally buy the really nice dining room set her husband had said was too expensive.

But a life of translation is not all fun and game shows.

Today, Sandra’s life sounds more like that of a Superhero.

“We’re the translators for the good guys,” she told me, explaining the motto of her Washington, DC based translation service, Alboum & Associates. When she says Good Guys, she means organizations focused on public health, education or other causes she believes in but with one important caveat.

“We work with the ones who have good funding,” she clarified.

Take for example Campaign for Tobacco Free Kids. The group realized if it wanted to curb access to cigarettes in the global arena it needed to focus on Ukraine, a country with particularly low excise taxes. They worked on making legislative changes, and enlisted Sandra and her translators to get the message across in Ukrainian.

In the past three years, the country “has passed four tobacco tax increases...” according to the Campaign’s website, which has fact sheets posted in Ukrainian, and thankfully, English. But taxes are still relatively low and smoking rates among both youth and adults are said to be among the highest in Eastern Europe.

Sandra’s work in Ukraine, it appears, is not yet over.

Still, even when it is, she told me, “I can’t work for Philip Morris.” And neither can her translators. “We won't play both sides of the fence.”

Sandra said she is unique within the field of translation agencies, a distinction that helped Alboum & Associates became the exclusive translation agency for Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation.

“The other day I did something in Shona and Ndbele,” she said.

Zimbabwe, in case you didn't know where Shona and Ndbele were spoken, a fact she told me faster than a speeding bullet, or at least much faster than my fingers could type a Google search.

Working for the Good Guys means this superhero translator can help hundreds of thousands of people, instead of a handful. The Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation website for example records the impact of its effort in Zimbabwe. As of last December, they’ve tested more than 742,000 women for HIV, and provided nearly 961,000 women with prevention of mother-to-child transmission services.

How does she do it? She’s got 250 free lance translators around the globe, vetted by her own standards.

She'll send a prospective translator "...something small and say can you please translate this. We send it (the translation) to an existing translator and say would you be comfortable working with this person?”

Being bilingual, after all, does not mean someone will be a competent translator. Thinking that, Sandra explained, would be like saying, “I have two feet. I can ballroom dance.”

Dancing is not exactly what Sandra does in her office, but like many parents of young children who have little time to exercise, she daydreamed of a way to multitask at work.

“I said to my husband I wanted a treadmill where you’d have to be walking for your Internet to work.”

She couldn’t find one of those, but she did find a TreadDesk, and plans to walk eight miles a day at work, targeting a goal often voiced in the universal language of motherhood:

“I’m going to lose this dumb baby weight.”

Working for the Good Guys has motivated Sandra to look within her own neighborhood, as well.

“I volunteer at a food bank, and at a free clinic,” She said.

“Interpreting...mostly Spanish..” She also speaks Catalan, the regional language of Barcelona. But, for that, she said, “I don’t get a lot of requests.”

But one request she got last year tested her superlative powers.

She got a call from a guy, “...going to a Star Trek convention and he wanted to give a speech in Klingon. I thought it was my Dad,” she said, describing what she first thought was a joke.

“Then I realized my dad isn’t that clever.”

Despite her usual curiosity, she turned down the Trekkie.

Still, in creating a thriving business devoted to serving the mission of the Good Guys, Sandra’s carved out a niche others have bypassed.

To that we might say to her, "majQa."

Which, as anyone who knows Klingon will tell you, means “well done.”

This is a the first in a new periodic series profiling Lunch Box Mom readers called Lunch With....

We can't all introduce ourselves in person, so I thought it would be fun this summer to begin taking a look at the people who read, comment, and contribute to the network of this blog.

I first met Sandra when she commented on the post, The Disney Princess Invasion, but she walked into our family's life when she did translation on my father's book on Roberto Clemente. I suppose both my father and the baseball player and humanitarian Clemente qualified as Good Guys.

I'd like to profile a family making a long car trip or train ride this summer. If that describes your travel plans and you think your story would make a good Lunch With.... profile, email me here.

(It's been) 366 Days of Eric: A Sister's Tribute

2011-05-15T19:52:00.000-04:00

“Today is April 26, 2010, four months and 18 days ago Eric died. I still don’t like to think of him in the past tense. Eric is my brother.”

Liz and her younger brother Eric,
many years ago....

Elizabeth Reitman Waller typed those words, the first entry in her blog, 366 Days of Eric, twelve months and twenty six days ago. It’s now nearly a year and a half since her thirty-two year old brother collapsed while running a half-marathon, bled into his brain and died. And, as of this week, nearly 366 blog posts later.

Readers of Lunch Box Mom might remember my interview with Liz last summer. She had just started her writing project, still months away from a few painful but anticipated passages of the ensuing year: Thanksgiving, the December date on which Eric died, and what she hinted would be, sometime several months later, the birth of her third child, the first who would never meet his uncle.

“...I started the blog because I felt like I was in a fog,” Liz told me recently. “All I could think about was Eric and no one knew or appreciated it. I felt stuck. I definitely don't feel stuck anymore, the fog has lifted.”

She’s written through the dreaded days, such as the one before what would have been Eric’s 34th birthday.

“So here I am in Savannah celebrating the New Year with my parents and finding it increasingly hard to breath. Is it the increased humidity, the baby weighing down my lungs, or the fact that Eric’s birthday is, would be, should be tomorrow? I don’t even know how to phrase it. It’s hard to believe on this beautiful, sunny, warm day that terrible, unexplained things can happen in this world, and yet they do and have.

Tomorrow Eric would have been 34 and a young vigorous man with a beautiful new wife and a promising life ahead of him. Instead we mourn and remember and hopefully celebrate the life that he did get to have. We bought a bottle of champagne to toast him with and I’m lobbying for popcorn for dinner in his memory. It’s not enough, but nothing will ever be enough when it comes to this.”

The following day, in contrast to her sadness or perhaps to honor Eric’s sense of humor that surround her still, she posted a birthday card. “Despite Eric’s best efforts, no-one guessed “Bangkok.”"

You can image the far-side inspired cartoon of a charades game that went along with this. (If not, you can see it here.)

And so it has gone with 366 days, a title and commitment in keeping with Eric’s iconoclastic take on the world.

We’ve learned that Eric took out two IRA’s and listed Liz’s sons as the beneficiaries. That he loved pizza, and longed for it so much that even during a stint in Thailand, he’d have Domino’s delivered. That he was extravagant in his presents and whimsical in his NCAA bracket picks.

Dates and events over the past year inspired posts and Liz linked most things back to Eric. But then, new things happened: the birth of her third son, Andrew Eric Waller, and the news in early May that bin Laden was dead.

“This is the largest single event since Eric. I know I would be talking to him about it were he still here. I’m sure we would relive our 9/11 memories (I was working in the hospital, he was working in Riyadh) and talk about where the world goes from here. I miss his unique perspective on things.”

Reading another person’s reflections after a devastating loss is a phenomenon of the modern blogosphere. Liz and I went to college together and it was through her Facebook status updates that I first came to read of her brother’s death and later her blog. I had just finished Elizabeth Edward’s book, Resilience, in which she spoke, as she had before, of the death of her teenage son, Wade.

Edwards said she’d race back into the house and search her son’s dresser drawers, as if against logic she might find him inside of one.

I had mostly thought of grief as a sense of sadness, but here was the obsessive and anguished side of it—the wishful thinking and intellectual defiance of a particular reality.

It seemed achingly brave to revisit that kind of pain, but Edwards said she eventually found support online.

I thought of that when Liz started her blog.

In post #267, sometime in January, Liz posted “Permission to do it My Way,” in which she said she was relieved to read the Time Magazine piece that argued a new take on Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ stages of grief. Liz, a neuro ophthalmologist, wrote this:

“Apparently most people manage to get over the majority of their grief symptoms in six months with or without treatment. Six months? That seems a little quick to me, but then again I haven’t conducted any studies. Most of the studies mentioned in Time were conducted on people who have lost spouses. That may be a special kind of loss. I also think sudden unexpected loss probably is different to recover from than the long drawn out loss from illness. The loss of the young is also different from the loss of an older person. No matter how we recover or how long it takes, a part of me is relieved that I don’t have to follow the Kubler-Ross stages. Of course another part of me didn’t like the part of the article that said discussing and writing about your experiences didn’t help with recovery. Maybe, probably, I would have gotten here anyway (if I’m considered recovered), but I know this blog helped. But I also know it wouldn’t help everyone. I feel like I’m rambling here, but maybe that’s the point. Not everyone grieves the same way and not everyone has to. I feel a little freer now.”

When that freedom took hold is something Liz may know best, but as a reader, I sensed noticeable changes in her writing over the year.

Liz with baby Andrew
photo: Allison Fowler Photography

“More and more the posts are tangentially related to Eric instead of directly,” she told me. “It's hard for me to admit I'm running out of pure Eric stories, but easier to forgive myself if I have an off day.” She has reason to be forgiving with a nursing baby and an internet connection that she says is more often “from my phone than my computer these days.”

Still, her nonfiction blog has brought us to a turning point as poetic as any in a scripted movie.

It was post #358, "It Just Happened"

“I ran yesterday. I didn’t plan to nor did I want to. Those of you who read regularly will know that since Eric the thought of running terrifies me. I’ve never really liked it anyway and I thought I would never do it again. I’m making my husband jump through all kinds of hoops (stress echo scheduled for next week) before I’ll let him run. But it happened.

I was out for my usual walk through the neighborhood. It was overcast when I left but I didn’t think much about it. It’s been overcast a lot lately and frankly it’s nice to walk in that weather because it’s cooler.

About halfway through my walk I started hearing thunder. It got darker and darker and I started to feel ridiculous in my sunglasses. I was almost home when the skies opened.

I ran home. I took out my ear buds, cradled my iPhone to my shirt, mentally thanked my parents for minding the baby so he wasn’t with me and ran. It was a stretch of road that I vividly remember running with Eric and resenting him the whole time for goading me into running and out of my comfort zone of walking. He and my friend were way ahead and I was panting behind. But I did it.”

Am I allowed to use a racing term to describe what comes next? As you read this, Liz is a few posts away from 366. If you’re inclined to welcome her into the homestretch, you can click here to let her know that her tribute to her brother, and her own brave exploration, were not done entirely alone.

____

Join Lunch Box Mom on Facebook

Philadelphia/Princeton area folks, tune into NBC Philadelphia NONSTOP'S new show, Sandwich Moms and catch interviews with anchor Renee Chenault-Fattah and Sarah in the last five minutes of each show.

Different episodes running throughout the month.

NBC Philadelphia Nonstop airs on: Comcast channel 248, Verizon Fios 460 and Over-the-air at 10.2

Listen To Your Mother

2011-05-06T15:31:00.000-04:00

Shortly after Tom Hooper, the director of The King’s Speech, accepted his academy award, Ann Imig took to her Facebook wall to announce a unique connection. “Listen to Your Mother”, the advice of the Oscar winner, was also the buzz in mom blogging, as Ann in Madison, and her team in four other cities, prepared a series of live performance by the same name.

“Listen to Your Mother” is Ann Imig’s theatrical creation. As National Director, she oversees what the website describes as “live readings by local writers on the beauty, the beast, and the barely-rested of motherhood, in celebration of Mother's Day. Born of the creative work of mothers who publish on-line, each production is directed, produced, and performed by local communities, for local communities.”

Performances in Austin and Los Angeles ran last weekend, but it’s not too late to head to the Saturday performance in Valparaiso, Indiana, or this Sunday’s performances in the towns of Madison, Wisconsin, or Spokane, Washington, depending, of course, on where you spend your Mother’s Day.

Ann Imig, National Director
and Stay-at-Home Humorist

Ann took a few minutes away from planning this year’s Madison show to answer some questions via email. You'll discover why she goes by another title besides “National Director” of LTYM. She is also, by trade and training, a Stay-At-Home Humorist.

1. It sounds like the original idea sought to bring together the voices and material of mom bloggers. It appears to have expanded—can you speak to that in terms of what material you saw being submitted and by whom for 2011?

LTYM is born of blogging and women who create online. My original idea was to bring a taste of the vitality of the blogosphere to my real life community, and provide an opportunity for people to voice their stories. At the time I felt a disconnect between my fertile online creative life and my mom life at home. I wanted people in my community who'd never heard the word blog, to get to experience a bit of the energy, opportunity, and support I've received through meeting other parents and creative people online. I wanted to give my community something beyond brunch for Mother's Day.

This year the director/producers and I worked hard to explicitly invite non-moms to audition. Everyone has a mom, or someone who took on that role. Plenty of women want to be moms and cannot, or don't want to and have something to say about it. Thank God that raising children does not fall exclusively under women's jurisdiction anymore, and we even have a few men in our productions this year.

My goal is that as LTYM grows the diversity of voices will grow as well.

2. As a Stay-at-Home Humorist, what is it about motherhood that you find not funny?

The pee smell ingrained in the boys' bathroom drywall is Not Funny. The fact that my boys draw pictures of “mommy dying” when they are mad is Not Funny. When people ask what my children's favorite hobbies are and they answer “Computer. Iphone. Video games.” That is SO NOT FUNNY. But see? It's all funny. Humor is desperation mixed with rage with some of those yummy nonpareils on top.

3. You are the National Director of LTYM—as it’s grown and continues to grow—what have you needed to do to keep up? For example, do you have regional producers/directors agree to certain production values, sign contracts, etc, have you had to turn to a lawyer, or business manager for some details?

Lately I picture LTYM as the speed boat pulling me at 30 mph while I try to get up on waterskis for the first time. 2011 year is a beta year—meaning we do a lot of figuring out as we go. I hired Deb Rox of 3 Smart Girlz, LLC as my business development strategist. I began by writing a 5 page document laying out the roles and responsibilities to the extent I could, and sent it to each prospective director and producer before they joined the project. Everyone I chose had watched the show, had expressed interest in doing it in their community, and were people I knew through blogging and trusted could honor my original vision. We have ongoing conversations about creative process, procedure, and production values, and I'm trying to document and analyze as we go. I'm beyond thrilled and grateful that BlogHer came on as our national media sponsor, because that funding allows me to begin building an infrastructure and prepare for a second year of even greater growth.

4.Ten percent of the proceeds of each show go to specific charities. How are these chosen?

I chose V-Day's City of Joy as our national charity because I felt so inspired reading about Eve Ensler's work with survivors of gender violence in Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo. I could not conceive of a greater need than supporting these women being ravaged on a routine basis, and all the directors and producers supported my choice. Each local show chose their own local charity, which I vetted against LTYM's mission.

5. What did it feel like after the first performance?

Immediately following 2010's premier LTYM production, the lobby vibrated with energy and joy. The audience seemed bonded by hearing the motherhood experience celebrated aloud. My sister Rachel came over to hug me and said “I didn't know I needed that, but I really needed that.” A colleague of one of the women in the cast reported that the show caused her to go home and write—for herself and only herself—for the very first time. Moms, Dads, and Grandmas, Daughters and Great-Grandmas were taking photos and hugging. I've experienced plenty of after-performance lobby crowds, but nothing could compare to the celebration of motherhood that continued from the theater into the community that day. Rachel heard people talking about it in three different situations the next day—and none of them knowing it was her sister's show.

At the rate it's growing, this mom blogger thinks LTYM is coming to a town near you, very, very soon.....

Lunch Box Mom on Philly TV

starting this Monday, May 9th

the Premier of the new NBC Philadelphia NONSTOP show:

Sandwich Moms

with anchor, Renee Chenault-Fattah

Catch the regularly featured segments with Renee and Sarah

discussing some of the most timely LBM posts and topics

Sandwich Moms premiers this Monday, May 9 at 8:30am, with repeats at 1:30pm, as well as 1:30am and 4:30am for those with sleep schedules like mine. NBC Philadelphia Nonstop airs on: Comcast channel 248, Verizon Fios 460 and Over-the-air at 10.2

Reality: The Cure for a Royal Problem at Home

2011-05-01T21:19:00.000-04:00

Paper hat fashion fit
for a royal wedding

Three weeks ago, at approximately 1:30pm on a Sunday afternoon, while sitting in the back of a New York City taxi en route to Penn Station, my daughter caught wind, thanks to the TV embedded into the driver’s seatback, that a prince was getting married.

Years of diplomacy with the pink and scantily clad emissaries from Disney went down the municipal drain. The tenuous treaty by which I’d allowed these highnesses into my house in small numbers and with sufficient caveats was blown by the revelation that one of my principle statements was a lie.

“Yes” I admitted, like an outmaneuvered Secretary of State on Meet the Press, “there’d been a cover up.”

Sometimes, a Prince really does find his Princess.

I’d been less than forthcoming about that rare but possible scenario not because I didn’t allow for the possibility of regal love, but because in the context mermaids, sleeping beauties, dwarfs and glass slippers—the world in which many parents and their young children often navigate, marriage is the cure to a damsel’s distress.

Sure marriage is the “happily ever after” conclusion to a lot of literature—Shakespeare’s comedies included--but until they make a line of Midsummer Night’s Dream sippy cups, and my daughters beg to dress up like Bianca from Taming of the Shrew, it’s the princesses and their intoxicating romances that I have tried --sometimes unsuccessfully—to downplay.

“Heidi,” my husband said to my six year old, hoping to help me, “have you ever heard of the Magna Carta?”

Nothing grounds the allure of a royal wedding like an introduction to the seeds of constitutional law, but it was a man doing back flips on a pogo stick that soon took over the TV screen and, thankfully, my daughter’s imagination.

But, more news of the wedding could not be avoided, and finally, on Friday morning, we watched highlights of the ceremony and the recessional and carriage ride through the city streets.

And, amazingly, I finally felt free of the oppression of princesses.

We saw a Prince, groomed, it was clear, to control his emotions and salute or wave to his audience with practiced form. And, there was Kate, or Catherine, as she may be called, but Bonny Kate still the same, looking in her white gown and veil like a young woman more grounded and at ease with her new role than he with his. And, in the bursts of emotion that escaped his disciplined containment, it was clear that it was the Prince who was overwhelmed by his good fortune in marriage.

In the parlance of fairy tales, a spell had been broken in my house. And as is so often the case, it was broken by truth.

Yes, the groom looked handsome in his uniform and chivalrous in his manner, but the spectacle and accompanying scrutiny put fantasy in the hands of reality.

The carriage with horses rode down the street.

“Is this almost over?” my six year old asked.

She’d had enough.

She will probably, like her mother before her, never forget the day she watched her first princess get married.

But, now there’s a real person associated with the word "princess"; a real castle-- looking a bit stern and austere from the outside-- and the real test of the values promoted by the marketers of the princess myth: integrity, honor, discovery, friendship and love.

Perhaps my daughters and I will now turn more to Princess Catherine and less to Snow White.

If so, that’s progress.

The next step will be to continue in this process, and to learn more about actual people, less defined by myth and status, who manage to show integrity, honor, discovery, friendship and love, without a tiara, and without, necessarily, a prince.

Photo credit of royal carriage: Robbie Dale : Wikimedia Commons

The Scoop on Poop: A Post Earth Day Wrap Up

2011-04-24T21:09:00.000-04:00

Let's dish, in a grown-up kind of way, a little potty-talk.

Allen Hershkowitz, a scientist and director of the solid waste program at the Natural Resources Defense Council, got the ball rolling a few weeks ago when he was quoted in an AP article that looked at both the golden anniversary of Pampers and the resurgence of cloth:

“A compelling argument for getting rid of disposable diapers absolutely does not exist. It’s a personal choice, but it really can’t be made on environmental grounds. There are costs both ways.”

Surprising?

Not so much if you look at what’s been written, even on the Natural Resources Defense Council’s own site.

Back in 2007, Sheryl Eisenberg wrote “Revisiting the Diaper Debate” on the Council’s This Green Life Journal. She cited the 1990 study that showed no significant difference in environmental impact between disposable and cloth diapers. That study, she pointed out, was conducted by Procter and Gamble. The sponsor behind the subsequent study that found cloth diapers were better for the environment? The National Association of Diaper Services.

A tug of war has often existed in this debate, leaving many, like Eisenberg, to suggest that if neither choice is without impact, it’s a third option that puts less burden on the earth: infant potty training.

But it was convenience and presumably not environmental or developmental considerations that first prompted Victor Mills, a chemical engineer and new grandfather at Proctor and Gamble, to tweak what was then the unpopular and expensive disposable diaper. Although disposables now dominate the market, it was once, obviously, the other way around.

The Pampers website recites the product’s history in condensed pop culture shorthand. Mad Men fans fretting about its return with season five, have no fear. Just visualize this walk through disposable diaper history:

We’re told that while some folks went to Woodstock, Procter and Gamble took to the department and drug stores. When a generation turned to bell bottoms and 8-tracks, P&G replaced the safety pin with tape. When the country fell in love with Wall Street, Pampers added the Value Pack. And, around the time Cuba Gooding Jr. won an Oscar, they introduced Ultra Thins. Today, perhaps because of the preponderance of cute organic cotton/hemp reusable diapers, they speak of their latest addition: diapers that breathe.

Pampers and other disposables also makes up “about 1.5 percent of all municipal waste generated in the United States, and municipal waste makes up about 2 percent of all waste from all sources” according to the AP article by Leanne Italie.

Disposable diapers still cost more than reusables and the NRDC statement notwithstanding, they are viewed as less earth-friendly, in particular, if not absolute ways, than their cloth counterparts.

The makers of gDiapers remind us of that very idea. These “hybrid” diapers can use either a biodegradable insert made of “sustainably farmed wood fluff pulp, sodium polyacrylate and cellulose rayon” or one made of cloth. They maintain a “Cradle to Cradle” design, a concept that turns waste, the website says “into a resource” not more garbage.

And, there is enough interest in cloth to spur a growing presence of smaller mom and pop shops online, such as Madison’s Sprout Change, which employs area moms in the making of their products (and has posted a few of my non-diaper related posts on the environment on their site) and the Colorado company GoGreen Pocket Diapers.

Just a few days ago, on Earth Day, in fact, those who advocate the virtues of cloth diapers attempted to set a world record with The Great Cloth Diaper Change. The organizers hoped at least 10,000 babies in 400 locations would have their cloth diapers changed at exactly the same time.

So, instead of asking what form of diaper is best for the earth, maybe the question is: how does anyone decide what to do?

A 2009 article in US News and World Report, “Why Some People Go Green—and Others Don’t” by Matthew Bandyk tried to answer that. Bandyke took a look at the book, You Are What You Choose, by Duke social scientists, Scott di Marchi and James T. Hamilton.

If I can sum up a summary, here's what defines the personality of someone likely to go Green.

They are “idea” consumers, who think about the intangible element of what they buy. They commonly have the trait of altruism, and thrive on the feeling derived from “doing good.” They are described as “Time Minders” who consider the long-term cost benefit even if it means a short-term loss. And, they are can be swayed by what is called the “Me Too” mentality, going with the flow of their social network to “go green”. This trait, the authors note, can work in the opposite direction as well, however.

Six years ago, I sat on the fence of indecision.

My mother, A Time Magazine Ocean Hero who a few years before had told me that if we served overfished Chilean Sea Bass at our wedding everyone would hate me, offered some equally direct advice.

“If you use cloth diapers, nobody will want to baby sit for you.”

Was it a general Nobody? Or was it a specific, I changed my last cloth diaper four decades ago -Grandmother-kind-of-Nobody?

I didn’t risk finding out. Or explaining the newest in poop-catching innovation.

Which is why I say, whatever our environmental position, and however much we are influenced by the marketplace or culture, the diaper we use (and how we came to the choice of using it) often feels as unique and specific to our own lives as the child whose bottom it so reliably protects.

PS- After this post ran, I was able to touch base with Catherine Bolden, who after many years of trial and error developed Sprout Change reusable diapers. I first met Catherine in the blogging world when she posted a few of my blogs on non-diaper related issues, and I am grateful to her for keeping this dialogue going, despite my family’s “disposable” diaper status.

Considering she’d made reusable diapers and products her life’s work, what was her response to the much talked about statement by the NRDC scientist? This is part of her reply, looking at the bigger picture and specific comparisons between diapers:

“...Our future is not just about reusable diapers, but an entire lifestyle shift. It's choosing a more sustainable, reusable future for everyone. That also happens to save money. We have the chance now to make a difference, to give our kids a better future. A very wise bumper sticker once said, "If we don't change directions, we'll end up where we're going." This simple sentence really made me think. Who do you want to be? What future do you want to leave your babies with? ....”

“...Disposables use tons of plastic! Petroleum is not a renewable resource. Yes, water is used in washing cloth diapers, but water will recycle much faster than oil! Yes, cloth uses energy in washing, but the manufacturing of so many disposables over the years, cannot ever begin to compare. Cloth diapers do not usually use anywhere near the level of chemicals. Disposable diaper manufacturing involves the release of a cocktail of chemicals into the environment that affect the water quality for the creatures that live in it or drink it. We're all connected. Something that happens to one creature on this earth affects us all. It's the circle of life.”

Siblings With/Out Rivalry

2011-04-17T22:07:00.000-04:00

Sibling Rivalry, as they say, is as old as tape decks and the Rolling Stones. Or, maybe it’s Cain and Abel. Either way, it’s the fighting over rock music or punk, tape decks and stereos, and other cultural references to life 1987 that place the best-selling book of that time, Siblings Without Rivalry, in another era. And, perhaps the book’s premise of following the progress of a group of parents throughout a series of seminars on sibling rivalry feels like what would now be the plot of a reality TV show--one that was made before the boundaries of political correctness shaped what people said, if not what they felt.

But, setting aside the understandable differences between life in 1987 and in 2011, and looking at the basic hope of parents to raise happy, self confident children who are able to love and cooperate with their siblings, the book is timeless.

And it reveals an aspect of sibling rivalry that was evident in the informal survey I conducted among readers last week. Children grow up to become adults who may or may not have reconciled their rivalry with their sisters and brothers. But they almost never forget what their parents did to quell, ignore or feed the flame of competition or typecasting within the family when they were kids.

So it was with the hope that I might create a more harmonious relationship between my two girls as well as with a little fear of the potential for a future of regrettable pain and resentment that I took on this subject.

The University of Michigan’s site for parents (YourChild), describes sibling rivalry as, “Jealousy, competition and fighting between brothers and sisters....” The website, as with the majority of readers who responded to my survey, said sibling rivalry was a point of parental stress.

It’s pretty annoying to the kids, too.

Some call it a reminder that beneath our intellectual desire for a peaceful family, we have an even stronger biological need to survive and thrive.

But, considering we’re not birds, a species with which the term “siblicide” and all its complex and ecological meaning is often associated, and that only one reader commented that the biggest rivalry was between her six year old and her adopted greyhound dog (troubling, but outside the scope of many techniques not requiring both conversation and milk bones), we have the idea that words and thoughtful strategies can have some positive influence.

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That was my hope, at least, when I read for the second and more diligent time, Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish’s classic, Siblings Without Rivalry.

The book looks at many aspects of rivalry and ways of coping, but I took away three basic points. It’s clear from the poll that many of you have already made these part of your lives, but they were good reminders for me:

1. Listen to what your kids say and validate their feelings. Describe what you hear your kids saying. Not only did this force me to listen, it bought me time as I tried to figure out what to say next.

2. Show “Leadership” as a Parent. The book does not describe a parent’s role with this particular term, but it suggests that while you have options when dealing with rivalry—to ignore and see how it goes, to step in and suggest the kids find a solution, to guide them towards a solution, to send one (or both) to their rooms, or to find another strategy that fits the circumstance, above all, it’s you who sets the tone and expectation that civility and respect are possible and necessary.

3. You can turn Rivals into Teammates. The example used both in the book and on the University of Michigan site was one in which two kids were asked to clean up a room. Instead of racing against each other, they were asked to race against the clock. Fast-paced cleaning sounds exhausting, but you get the idea.

The stakes were high the day after I finished the book. We were a few days away from my oldest daughter’s birthday and the house was filling up with balloons, birthday cards, and a few early presents.

“Mom,” my oldest said to me, “Ava took my balloon.”

I could not write a more clichéd scenario, but I’ll point out, it was a water balloon. In the hands of a two and a half year old, this presented not only an issue of property rights but a high probability of sogginess.

Listen to the aggrieved, I reminded myself. Describe what you hear her saying.

“I know you’re upset," I said, “and I know you don’t like it when your sister takes your things.”

She was intrigued by the attention to her feelings and it was surprisingly easy, even having watched only one or two episodes of Dr. Phil in my entire life—to come up with these phrases.

Turning to her sister, I said, “I know you want a balloon, too. But, whose balloon is that?”

She said nothing. The threat of being told what do to was replaced by an unexpected question and opportunity, and the new experience gave her pause.

Then, very gently, she handed her sister the pink water balloon.

Her sister smiled and accepted it. “You know what?” she said. “You can have it. I’ll get another one.”

It was beautiful.

It was also a bit terrifying; the two year once again had the water balloon. But, if anything’s clear in parenting, it’s that we can’t predict our moments of success.

For the rest of the afternoon, my daughters played as they’d not done in a long time. There was a change in the air. It seemed not only were they happier, but I felt more hopeful that we might be onto a way of toning down the struggle over toys and attention.

The book warns of problems in later years when parents define their kids by traits, and in a sense typecast them.

You’re the good student..... You’re the gregarious, social one....You're more responsible than your sister...

Not only did assigning kids to roles make them feel that they were not seen as individuals, but two other things happened. The “good kid” felt he should not associate (or befriend) the criticized one for fear the parents would be disappointed in him, thus exacerbating the rivalry. The exalted child also resented the parents for pitting her against the other child, or allowing for no room to mess up. Of course, the other sibling suffered greatly, too, but it was interesting to read how, even in praise, we can hurt.

Turning back to the enduring memories of readers who took the survey, what were some of the things people said when I asked them what their parents did (or did not do) to both exacerbate or mediate the competition?

“Always treated us with fairness and respect. Never showed favoritism.”

“Left us to our own devices...didn't help matters at all.”

“Encouraged us to have different types of activities.”

“Quite simply, my parents gave both my brother and me a lot of individual attention.”

“Pigeon holed us based on our personality at the time and our talents...”

“Nothing.”

“It was definitely a "figure it out yourselves attitude.”"

“....so long ago I can't really remember.”

In my second reading of Siblings Without Rivalry, I took a bit more time with each page, and noticed something I had overlooked the first time I read it, just weeks after my second child was born.

Before the table of contents is the dedication: To all the grown-up siblings who still have a hurt child inside of them.

I did not feel much rivalry with my older brother, but I see it between my girls. And given both of their personalities, I know whatever actions my husband and I take (or do not take) will become elements of their upbringing they will never forget.

* Special thanks to the inimitable mother and inventor of lunch boxes, Kelly Lester of Easy LunchBoxes, for helping spread the word about the survey and to all of you had the time to share your thoughts.

The April Mail

2011-04-10T22:08:00.000-04:00

I do not bungee jump, nor have I ever.

I was confident about answering this question and one that referred to my rodeo habits (or absence of) when my husband and I sat through Round One of the application process for life insurance.

Despite being no stranger to the details of my own life, I gained a greater understanding of a few things that morning:

1) I am not a risk taker. I am ok with that.

2) My husband’s life, in a system that asks you to assign value, is worth more than mine. I am ok with that. Really, I am.

3) The novels in which a wife takes out a $20 million life insurance policy on her husband before pushing him off the deck of a cruise ship don’t make “paperwork” part of the plot.

The Luncheon of the Boating Party, 1881
Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Insuring a life, after all, is serious stuff. Could I compare it to insuring a home, a Renoir, the Hope Diamond? No, when assessing these objects, I imagine cholesterol levels are not part of the conversation.

Round Two: peeing into a cup.

Doing this at home and having your blood taken in your own dining room, while convenient, is actually not the kind of cross-association you want to have.

Round Three: more questions.

These were done by telephone and it was my mistake to answer them while loading the dishwasher.

“The name of my dermatologist? Hum, that’s a good one...”

I'd just been to him, but the pressure to be accurate and sort silverware was too much. I sat down and focused on the questions.

"Did I have an interest in getting an amateur pilot’s license?"

I could have kept sorting silverware and been able to clearly say, "No," to that one.

Still, randomness, fate, luck, and fear so often swirl in my head when it comes to thinking about life and death. Was it comforting or unsettling to examine life in the context of data points?

It didn’t matter. As parents, my husband and I needed to do this in the same way we needed to make our wills and designate guardians for our kids. It's absolutely painful to think about too deeply, which was probably why we'd delayed for as long as we had.

When did other people think about these things, I wondered?

According to one industry site, the best time to buy life insurance is in a person’s 20’s. Statistically, it’s a time of good health, lower premiums and marriage.

The actual “triggers” or reasons that propel people to buy life insurance are divided among several categories, but the most popular reason for men is marriage (24%). And, “Having a first child, or additional child” is the main motivator for women, (28%), according to a 2007 survey conducted by AXA Equitable.

The impetus that drove my husband and me from talking about life insurance to applying for it was a bit more serendipitous. We discovered that a new neighbor and friend sold life insurance.....We’d just been talking about life insurance.

What are the odds of that happening?

Probably good, but I still think of the story as an example of coincidence. And I realized as I was asked questions that fed into what must create a calculated analysis of my life and its risks, that I have considered most turns and outcomes as a result of something other than statistical probability or even cause and effect.

That contrast was especially true when I thought about a time, many years ago, when an administrator assigning freshman roommates placed me with a young woman who would become my good friend and who would, nearly ten years later, introduce me to some guy she worked with.

He’s the guy, along with our kids, for whom my life is now insured.

WAITING FOR THE APRIL MAIL

This week, our mailman delivered two envelopes. One was thin; one was fat.

The thin envelope related to Round Two of the process: my lab work.

The fat envelope would tell me if my policy was approved.

We don’t always get letters in the mail informing us that the next phase of our adulthood is about to begin. Letters that remind us to slow down and take a look around because in a blink twenty years will pass.

And, eventually, if we are very fortunate, twenty more.

But then again, sometimes we do.

And, although I am grateful for the reminder that's come with this insurance process, this is one letter of acceptance that I will now try to think a great deal less about.

ps- It's a year ago today, as I post this, that my Grandmother Pat died. Although being with her near the end was emotional, and today's topic of life insurance is more technical, I see both as reminders to seize the day, the best we can.

Take the three minute survey on Sibling Rivalry and Parenting "Advice". Click here for the Lunch Box Mom Reader Survey. Thank you!

Dora Dances with the Stars

2011-04-03T20:19:00.000-04:00

By now, you’ve probably received your invitation to Dora’s dance recital. It’s an intimate affair, just her family, some friends and a few million Target Shoppers.

My invitation came in the form of an ad for the DVD Dora’s Ballet Adventures, sold exclusively at Target.

“Et tu, Dora?” I thought, holding the video at the store a few days later. Dora stood dressed in a tutu and showered in a rainfall of roses.

“When had she crossed over to the pink side?”

Back at home and twenty-five minutes into the episode, however, I was shouting, “Hooray, Dora! You did it!”

Again.

What did she and her creators do?

They stayed true to Dora’s prosocial theme and made an episode about ballet a story about problem solving, helping others, and finding joy through activity, in this case, dance. They took the heart of what’s made the show exceptional and applied it to a theme that could have been reduced to fancy clothes and audience adulation.

The show gets off to a quick start when Delivery Duck brings a box of scuba flippers to Dora’s dance troupe instead of ballet slippers. Dora volunteers to run back to the dance studio and get the right box in time for the show. Backpack and Map help her make the right turns (in this case every turn is metaphorically and literally a right turn) and they lead her to bunny hop hill and a barn where she joins the animal hoedown and flaps her arms like a chicken. Further down the road, she beats out Swiper the Fox, and in a display of glorious, plot-driven, ballet know-how, she executes a grand jeté just in time to save a set of singing keys.

Boots reminds us that dancing gives us strong muscles and Dora sings about the joy of movement, saying that with music and dance “you’ll find you can’t be sad anymore.” But, it’s the arrival of the Dance Train, in all its funky, groovy style that is the show’s musical highlight.

When Dora stands center stage at the end, you feel she’s earned it. She is singular; she is the star. But she is a leader, not a diva.

Does any of this matter?

I’d say it does. In my essay on Slate’s Double X about Dora’s 10th Birthday, I mentioned the studies about prosocial messages in children’s television. Kids can, after watching such shows and with reinforcement, display more altruistic traits in their own lives.

But, there’s another thing to consider when it comes to Dora donning a ballet outfit instead of her trademark shorts and t-shirt.

It’s a change.

And Dora is, above all else, a brand, not a best friend.

Waiting in the wings, to follow her dance performance, is an entire chorus of new Dora merchandise.

You may have only recently noticed it this spring, but the rest of the toy lineup is due out in the fall. There’ll be a steady release of several new toys made by FISHER-PRICE and MEGA brands. In a press release this February, Nickelodeon described the new products, all for kids 3 and up, and many designed to “mirror what today’s girls are wearing themselves.”

The Dora Dress-Up Collection Doll with “beautiful long hair and life-like eyelashes.” This Dora comes with a bow in her hair. And for about fifteen dollars, you can dress the doll for all her pressing engagements including: Rainy Day; School Day, (a velvet jacket, skirt, striped shirt, matching headband, and ballet flats); Beach Vacation; and the Party outfit, (a satin and organza party dress, matching purse, ballet flats, and flower hair clips.)

There’s also the Flower Girl Dora which come with a hairbrush and the Suds and Style Fairy Dora which allows you to use “warm or cold water to reveal surprise designs on Dora’s face and bathing suit and to magically change her hair highlights.”

There are more toys, and the one featuring “Dora’s Most Treasured Adventure” reminds us that Dora does “the opposite of what pirates do...return treasure instead of taking it.”

But, it’s clear that Dora, even little Dora, not her pre-teen alter-ego, is undergoing a makeover.

You could argue that the girl from Nick Junior is no longer ceding the territory of parties, ballet recitals, and beach vacations to the girly-girls of Mattel. If her creators can infuse such themes with her distinct displays of kindness, exploration, and perseverance, then it’s a good thing.

But you could also ask why Dora is moving in this direction.

I imagine the consumer product division at Nickelodeon knows what it’s doing. There is probably more excitement and demand for the Dance and Sparkle Ballerina Dora than there might be for an aviator Dora, or zoologist Dora, or habitat for humanity (dressed in sweats and work boots) Dora. And, fantasy and frilly dresses are part of the childhood I remember and embraced.

But, in the balance of things, Dora was once distinctive because she helped offset the pink and frilly.

I don’t know if the current metamorphosis in the product division has been slow or sudden, brilliant or disappointing, but I know this: the explorer in sneakers is now wearing ballet flats. And when three year olds start talking about highlights, they might not mean the magazine for kids.

One Thousand Paper Cranes

2011-03-27T20:37:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago I received an email from my daughters’ school. It mentioned the March 11th earthquake and tsunami in Japan and said baskets would be placed outside of each classroom filled with paper cranes. For $1, we could buy a crane and the money would go to the Japanese Red Cross to help “survivors rebuild their lives and communities.”

The letter was signed by a few moms who have kids at the school. One of them was my friend, Alice Huang, who I knew was from Taiwan. The other women, I realized, after reading each last name slowly, probably had ties to Japan.

For days I had been watching the news and reading the newspaper. I had not looked up and seen the families right in front of me.

“These cranes are beautiful,” I said to one of the moms who was near a basket the next morning at drop off. “Is your family in Japan?”

She said yes. And, they were safe.

When I asked Alice about the paper cranes, she reminded me of Taiwan’s connection to Japan, and that, given the history, her grandparents' generation “had a Japanese education.”

So when she read the news online about the devastation in Japan and went to the Red Cross website to make a donation, she had a strong desire to be able to donate more money than would be possible as an individual.

“I am sure even without the paper cranes, we would have been able to have a successful fundraiser.” But, the cranes, in many ways, had meaning.

“Origami is part of Japanese culture but also Taiwanese culture,” she told me. “I knew how to make origami when I was a little girl. We included two paper cranes in my wedding favors—because for Chinese, two love birds will always fly together in their lives.”

In Japan, there is a legend that folding a thousand paper cranes makes a person’s wish come true. The cranes are often given as a gift to a couple at their wedding or after the birth of a child, suggesting the giver has wished for them many years of happiness. They also symbolize world peace, and some stories in the past few weeks have mentioned Sadako Sasaki, the young girl who spent her final days of life folding paper cranes. She died of leukemia, developed after the bombing of Hiroshima.

For her fundraiser, Alice gathered origami paper she’d bought at a Japanese bookstore. A few of the moms had paper from recent trips to the country. Together they sat, folding the cranes. Five minutes to make one. Ten minutes, perhaps, for others.

“When I was folding the paper cranes, I actually felt it helped to release the anxiety about the disaster,” Alice told me.

I’ve given my oldest daughter a few dollars each morning for the past week. She’s stood at the box near her classroom, staring at the birds: bright red with gold, white with cherry blossoms and tiny lady bugs, orange with green, and her sister’s favorite, Hello Kitty.

The kids learned about the earthquake in Haiti last year. This year, the tsunami. I do not think anyone has mentioned the nuclear plant.

We talk about the cranes.

Because of that box, I finally lifted my head out of the rushed morning routine. And I stopped for a few seconds longer at the door to the classroom to say to the women whose children share the school and playground with my daughter something I should have said long before, “I hope your family is ok.”

The cranes have been a good education for us all.

First Time Daddy, Long Time Fan

2011-03-20T18:40:00.000-04:00

Before my older brother Andrew and his wife Alison became parents last September, I emailed him a few questions. Parenthood was the only thing I'd managed to accomplish well ahead of him, and I thought I'd take advantage of his momentary inexperience to do a little "before and after" segment on becoming a father. As usual, his view anticipating parenthood and now his answers six months into it prove why he's someone I always look up to--even if he's stocking up on diapers while my household has confidently moved on to pull-ups.

Interview with Andrew Maraniss, a few weeks before his first child, Eliza, was born:

What do you think you’ll feel the moment you first hold the baby?
I am expecting that I will be overcome with emotion the first time I hold Eliza. It will be so amazing to hold her and look at her and think that this little girl has her whole life ahead of her – Day One of a lifetime … Also, to think about all the events over the course of history that made this one life possible. And the responsibility as a parent to provide for her.

Who do you think the baby will look like?

I hope she looks more like Alison than me! Although it would be kind of fun to have another bald person in the family, even for a couple of days. Looking at other people’s babies, I feel like I can usually see how they look like their parents in various ways. I am thinking that it will be harder to do with our own baby.

What’s in your diaper bag right now?

Do we even have a diaper bag? I think we do – in fact, I think you gave it to us. I don’t know if there is anything in it, to tell the truth.

What do you typically do between the hours of 8am and 12 noon on a Saturday?

By 8 a.m. I have usually been up for an hour or an hour and a half … I’ve usually had breakfast, read the paper, checked emails and Facebook, and done some work on the book I’m writing. (A biography of Perry Wallace.) Usually work on the book till about 10, then will usually either go to the grocery store, run other errands, or do a little yard work. I am a morning person on weekends and like to try to get as much done as early as possible. Then I’ll crash in the afternoon and take a nap.

What do you think when you see a couple out for a walk pushing a baby in a stroller?
Not much, honestly. Obviously it has started to have a little more meaning for me lately. In the past, I may have just thought, “There goes someone with a baby…” the same way I would have thought, “There goes a jogger” or “There goes the mailman.” Now I think a little bit more about the bigger picture with that couple and their child, especially the fact that this is a mere moment in time for that person with the baby, they won’t ALWAYS have a baby in a stroller … They’ve been pregnant, been through labor, now they have an x-month old, etc. Person-with-baby is not always person-with-baby.

If you can anticipate this, what are a few things you and your family will gain as a result of bringing your little one into the world?
Most important, we will gain a new perspective on life. I can already FEEL that perspective coming – thinking about how certain events or decisions will impact Eliza’s life. I’m curious about the different kind of love that a parent feels for their child, and the way that sharing this experience will add a new dimension to my relationship with Alison. We will also gain a whole new childhood – experiencing life through her eyes and reliving life from the very beginning.

What are you looking forward to teaching your daughter?
How to throw a ball! I think she’s going to grow up to be quite a little ballplayer. An all-around woman. I’m also looking forward to teaching her how to read, of course …

What is one thing you wish you had time for that you just don’t?
I don’t spend enough time keeping up our yard. I could also spend more time on my closet! And working on the book. And exercising.

If you were to describe the kind of parent you think you’ll be –in whatever terms come to mind—what would you say? Is there a person you have as a role model?
I hope to be like mom and dad in terms of Eliza knowing that she is loved unconditionally ALWAYS. That is most important to me. I’m looking forward to providing her with diverse experiences, giving her a well-rounded childhood, hopefully traveling a lot … I’ve thought more about the experiences I’d like her to have than a parenting style. My own personality probably suggests I’ll want to be her buddy, but I know I’ll also need to be a disciplinarian at times, too.

What’s the plan for season tickets to all the sporting events you go to? Did you buy a third ticket? (or sling, to bring her along with you in...)
Very important question. We’ve already given up our Titans season tickets this year. I plan to keep my Vanderbilt football season ticket, though I probably won’t go to many games this year at least. We plan to keep our two Vanderbilt basketball season tickets, and we’ll bring Eliza to a few games this year. In a year or two, we’ll buy a third season ticket and bring her to the games. We’ve also kept our Symphony tickets – might be an excuse for a date every once in awhile.

Interview with Andrew after six months of being a dad:

What did you think the moment you first held Eliza?
I felt an elation I have never experienced before. I was relieved that she was healthy and that she was finally "here" after a long labor, and just amazed to hold someone that was the creation of Alison and me. She was so small and seemingly helpless and fragile, and a feeling of responsibility washed over me that I hadn't anticipated. I remember she looked up into my eyes and at that moment I knew my life had changed forever.

Who does she look like?
When Eliza was born, I was a little surprised that she looked to me like my late Grandfather Elliott! She had a bit of a dark complexion and dark hair, and of course seemed so tiny. She still has that dark hair but looks a lot less like an old man these days. She has a wonderful smile, which she flashes ALL THE TIME!

What’s in your diaper bag right now?
I haven't looked in it all that recently, but I know there are some diapers in there, wipes, a small bottle of formula, some clothes ...

What do you typically do between the hours of 8am and 12 noon on a Saturday?
Eliza usually wakes up around 6 a.m., and I'll change her diaper, give her first bottle, play with her a little bit, and then put her back to bed for a nap. Alison usually pumps and then handles the second feeding. Sometimes I'll take a nap along with Eliza. I'll eat breakfast, read the paper, do some work ... Not as productive as I used to be on Saturday mornings!

What do you think when you see a couple out for a walk pushing a baby in a stroller?
Well, since spring has just sprung, I haven't seen many babies out in strollers recently, but running into parents coming and going at daycare, I feel a little more "connected" to parents than I did before. Certainly feel like there are many aspects to parenthood that you literally do not understand before you are a parent yourself. So, I feel a bit of that kinship, and I understand the joy and frustrations these other parents are experiencing better than before.

What are a few things you and your family have gained as a result of bringing your little one into the world?
Alison and I have both commented that we feel a different kind of love for Eliza than we have ever felt before; one we didn't know existed. We realize that we talk about her an awful lot, and wonder what we ever talked about before. We have gained a little buddy and someone who makes us very happy every single day. I feel like I have also gained a deeper appreciation for the sacrifices my own parents made, and I'm more interested in learning things -- or re-hearing old stories -- about my own childhood.

What are you looking forward to teaching your daughter? What do you like to teach her now, as well?
More so than looking forward to teaching anything to Eliza, I'm really curious to find out what she enjoys doing ... whether that's a certain sport or playing an instrument or certain kinds of books or a favorite subject at school -- really looking forward to seeing her interests develop. In the meantime, it has been great fun to watch her discover her feet, to watch her react to things she thinks are funny, to see her get stronger and so alert, to watch her interact with her little friends and her teachers at daycare (a secret life of her own that we only see glimpses of!), and to watch her learn to eat her rice cereal from a spoon.

What is one thing you wish you had time for that you just don’t?
I wish I had more time to work on the book I'm writing, and to exercise more. Going to work, taking care of Eliza, and basic stuff around the house consume most of my energy.

What’s the plan for season tickets to all the sporting events you go to? Did you buy a third ticket? (or sling, to bring her along with you in...) Any regrets or revisions to this policy?
We missed just about all of the pops series at the symphony this year ... We kept our Vanderbilt basketball tickets, and Alison's parents babysat so we could attend most of the games. We dropped our Titans season tickets last year, and won't get them again this year either (if there IS an NFL season). We did renew our Vanderbilt football tickets, but Alison doesn't like to watch them lose anyway, so I'll probably just go with friends. Eliza hasn't been to a game yet, but I'm really looking forward to the day that we can attend some Vanderbilt basketball games together as a family.

V is for Vasectomy

2011-03-13T21:58:00.000-04:00

As the good folks at the Oregon Urology Institute have made clear, while watching UConn take on Bucknell, nothing goes better with chips and root beer than a package of frozen peas on your testicles.

Did I just say that?

Is this Lunch Box Mom?

I was even heard talking about vasectomies with the host of “Sandwich Moms”, an upcoming show on the NBC Philadelphia Nonstop cable station.

But even NPR’s Scott Simon was heard talking about vasectomies, March Madness and frozen peas when he interviewed Terry FitzPatrick, the administrator at the Oregon Urology Institute three years ago. Back then, the clinic sent men home with a cooler filled with frozen peas, a sports magazine, a certificate for pizza and a Subway sandwich.

This year, patients get a t-shirt and a doctor’s note. Snip City, as they call it, also gives some advantageous opportunities to fulfill doctor’s orders with prime appointment (and recuperation) periods just before big game weekends on March 16, 17, 23, and 24th.

I’d rather pick glitter out of a shag carpet for a week than be forced to watch three days of college basketball, but if does the trick, then more power to Snip City.

It’s a lighthearted approach compared with the one described by a headline in the Times of London in 2008, “India Offers Firearms Permits for Vasectomies.”

Explained as a “scheme that trades one male status symbol for another” in a district with a high birth rate and enough uncontrolled violence to inspire the strong desire for individual gun ownership, the program fast-tracked applications for gun permits for those who’d gotten vasectomies.

In the year before the program, eight men had gotten vasectomies in Shivpuri, the story notes. In the month after it was introduced, 139.

Here at home, there was a significant increase in the number of men getting vasectomies around that time. But urologists at both the Cleveland Clinic and Cornell Institute for Reproductive Medicine credited that to the bad economy, according to a story on CNN Health.

I am unqualified to talk about vasectomies being neither a urologist nor a male, but as a woman conversing about the number of decisions and responsibilities women juggle, the topic is fair game.

Consider this: on the to-do list for most women of childbearing years, who do not wish to have more kids, birth control ranks somewhere between “buying milk” and “breathing” among things one doesn’t want to forget.

The urologist I interviewed called the vasectomy a gift a husband can give to his wife. The term sounded presumptuous in the context of “hey baby, ready when you are,” but it made sense in the realm of “I did something so you don’t have to.”

I believe it’s called Choreplay.

No more does a woman need to take hormones, remember to take hormones, get an IUD, a patch, sign up for a tubal ligation, or wait in line at ShopRite with a box of Trojans next to the Tropicana.

The Pill is still the most popular form of birth control for the women at a popular practice in my town, according to one gynecologist I spoke with. And when it comes to forms of sterilization, women take the lead, with 100,000 more tubal ligations than vasectomies performed nationally per year. (It’s hard to find consistent numbers, but it ranges from 500,000/400,000 to 600,000/500,000.)

On paper the trends don’t make sense. A tubal ligation is more expensive, more risky, arguably less effective, and requires a longer recovery time than a vasectomy.

But, as the urologist I interviewed said, if a man doesn’t want to get a vasectomy, and if he believes it will dampen his sexual satisfaction, then not much is going to change his mind.

For those who are contemplating it, however, does the prospect of watching an underdog beat out a perennial favorite in the final four without the threat of being asked to forfeit prime couch space or the remote control to a dog, child, or wife, make it more appealing?

I admit, if you told me I could spend 72 hours watching nothing but Agatha Christie mysteries on PBS, I might, just maybe, consider getting a root canal....

For a discussion of vasectomies, without a single reference to basketball, you can read this Q&A with Dr. Marc Goldstein, one of first surgeons to introduce the no-scalpel vasectomy in the United States. He is interviewed by The New York Times.

A New Relationship with Fluoride? It's Complicated

2011-03-06T21:10:00.000-05:00

The Centers for Disease Control lists Fluoridation of drinking water as one of the Ten Great Public Health Achievements of the last century.

It’s a new century, and as you might have guessed with a topic as controversial as fluoride, there are a few new cracks in the enamel of that distinction.

And these are worth taking a look at, especially if you have kids who regularly drink water and eat food.

First, when it comes to water, the Department of Health and Human Services and Environmental Protection Agency announced this January that for the first time in decades the amount of fluoride in drinking water should be lowered from a range of 0.7-1.2 milligrams per liter to a standard 0.7 milligrams per liter.

Second, days after the announcement on water, the EPA said it had “re-evaluated the current science on fluoride and is taking steps to begin a phase-down withdrawal of the pesticide sulfuryl fluoride, a pesticide that breaks down into fluoride and is commonly used in food storage and processing facilities.”

The problem with too much fluoride? According to a story on CNN.COM, the Department of Health and Human Services, the EPA and the American Dental Association say it can lead to mild Dental Fluorosis, a lacy white marking or spot on the enamel of teeth. Americans are getting more fluoride than they were when the fluoridation levels were established more than five decades ago, in part because fluoride is now in toothpaste, mouth rinses, supplements and even food.

Yes, food, which relates to the EPA decision on January 10 that the pesticide sulfuryl fluoride would be phased-down and eliminated.

Until I read it was being phased-down, I didn’t even know sulfuryl fluoride had been phased-in.

Known as the Dow AgroSciences fumigant ProFume, it was approved by the EPA in 2004 and 2005 for use in processing plants such as bakeries, bottlers, canneries, dairies, feed mills, fresh fruit packing and processing, meat processing, wineries, flour mills, egg processing, candy and confectionery plants, sugar processing, nut processing, cereal processing, and spice mills, to name a few.

It was a replacement to methyl bromide, targeted and banned because of its ozone-depleting properties. In fact, in 2007, instead of phasing down sulfuryl fluoride, the EPA was praising it, awarding Dow AgroSciences a “Partner in Ozone Protection” in the category of “new technologies in pest management.”

But the pesticide wasn’t popular with environmental groups. Several years ago, Fluoride Action Network, Environmental Working Group, and Beyond Pesticides combined their objections to the pesticide and submitted them as one document to the EPA. Their objections reached a peak this past January when, through the efforts of their pro bono lawyer, Perry Wallace, they were ready to take the case to court.

They didn’t have to.

For the first time in history, the EPA’s Office of Pesticide Programs updated its risks of sulfuryl fluoride based on the groups’ objections. The exposure to fluoride residue violated the Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act (FFDCA) safety standard which allows tolerances for pesticide residue only if “aggregate exposure to major subpopulations is “safe”” their press release says.

The subpopulation addressed in the EPA statement was identified as “infants and children under the age of 7 years old, where drinking water contains high levels of natural fluoride.” For this group, the aggregate exposure to fluoride was already considered so high the tolerances for sulfuryl fluoride in food, under the FFDCA, could not be permitted.

The EPA looked at the aggregate exposure to fluoride, especially in kids—something the three groups fighting to end the use of sulfuryl fluoride had wanted.

But when it comes to acute exposure, it’s complicated.

I emailed Chris Neurath the research director at Fluoride Action Network to ask him to explain the tolerance for a food fumigant such as sulfuryl fluoride.

He told me a tolerance was “...the maximum level of a pesticide residue allowed on food items. It’s not the average level, and it is possible that very few batches of food will have any reside from the use of sulfuryl fluoride.” This is in part because food is not always in the facilities at the time of fumigation.

For most processed foods, he said, “probably no more than 1% of batches of most foods will have been fumigated. And perhaps only 5% of those 1% will end up with residues exceeding the EPA 70ppm tolerance.”

But what about that 1 in 2000 meals?

“If the food consumed is one that is a staple,” he says, “one could easily eat a large serving. 70ppm fluoride in a child’s serving of bread or pasta could be enough to cause acute fluoride poisoning.”

Neurath goes on to say that his definition of acute is not the EPA’s definition. He’s talking about the symptoms such as “feeling sick to the stomach or vomiting.”

It’s important to note that Fluoride Action Network was not founded solely out of an abundance of concern for dental fluorosis. As most people know, the debate over water fluoridation has been long-running, and even the Health and Human Services and EPA announcement on lowering the levels in water and proposed removal of sulfuryl fluoride does not put to rest the arguments from researchers such as Neurath who look beyond dental fluorisis to other concerns that include, “bone cancer, thyroid effect and bone fracture.”

I am no scientist.

Most parents are not.

So the question is: How does this case fall into the larger picture of issues related to our children’s safety that often get muddied by political chess playing?

For one thing, the groups that have fought for a better look at excessive fluoride exposure have called the HHS and EPA announcements a victory.

As you might expect, there’s a twist.

The water and pesticide moves were prompted in part by the 2006 report by the National Research Council (NRC) of the National Academies of Science (NAS) which suggested the EPA “update its fluoride risk assessment to include new data on health risks and better estimates of total exposure.”

When the EPA and HHS recommended a lower level of water fluoridation to bring down total levels of exposure it created a window for Dow AgroSciences.

Dow AgroSciences may argue the population will be exposed to less fluoride. Considering sulfuryl fluoride accounts for only 3% of aggregate exposure, there could be room in such a case to grant a tolerance for it, without pushing total exposure past what is deemed safe.

Senator James Inhofe (R-OK) the Ranking Member of the Senate Committee on Environment and Public Works who recently introduced a bill that would strip the EPA’s authority to apply the Clean Air Act to carbon dioxide, has likewise taken on the EPA’s proposal on sulfuryl fluoride. In a letter to EPA Administrator Lisa Jackson, he said it could create “unintended consequences for public health, food safety and the economy.” And he’d like to look into the EPA’s decision and “supporting scientific rationale.”

Neurath says his group had been trying to get a hearing with the EPA--to discuss aggregate and acute fluoride exposure-- for almost ten years.

Thanks to Dow AgroSciences and Senator Inhofe, they might finally get one.

I said it was complicated.

Now if only Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin were here to make me feel better about feeling so confused.

Lunch Box Mom: Red Carpet Edition

2011-02-27T17:02:00.000-05:00

Here’s a party game for the sandbox set:

If you could invite one famous person and his or her kids over for a playdate, who would it be?

I’ll give you a few clues about my first choice:

He’s a dad (or presumably a legal guardian), has a country house and a place in the city, drives a convertible, recently won an Emmy, and wears a lot of yellow.

I’ll give you one last hint: he buys a lot of bananas.

I think I just gave it away.

Yes, The Man with the Yellow Hat is my celebrity playdate crush and I am not embarrassed to admit that my idol is a cartoon whose child is a monkey.

Is that much crazier than turning to Madonna for children’s literature?

The key difference, of course, is that the Man with the Yellow Hat’s entire persona is based on his relationship to his monkey/child. And when it comes to remaining calm in the face of chaos, keeping a positive attitude, and oozing a PBS kind of Q factor, not even George Clooney can touch him. That’s why I’d love to have him over for some banana bread and homemade lemonade.

“How do you do it?” I’d ask The Man.

“How do I do what, Sarah?” he’d reply modestly.

“You know, keep it together. You’re living with a monkey. He built a compost pile in your living room, used bath toys to flood the entire apartment building, hid hundreds of jelly donuts under your couch, and doesn’t wear clothes.”

“You know a lot about life with a monkey,” he’d say, taking off his hat.

“I live with a two year old,” I’d say, refilling his glass.

But is that our only bond?

It’s hard to say with The Man. We don’t really know much about him. Sure, there’s the paper trail from the 1940’s—those incriminating books in which he smokes cigars and acts like an Ivy Leaguer recruited by the CIA. But most of his bio is sketchy.

I did find one interview with WGBH in which The Man conceded that yes, he’s an archaeologist and yes, George arrived in the US via suitcase, but other than that, and the rumor that his first name is “Ted”, there’s not much else.

“My Dad always wore a blue hat,” he said in the WGBH interview. And, his Grandpa wore a red one. Still, it was clear someone had gotten to the interviewer—she never pressed him on the obsession with yellow.

I’m not sure I would either.

No, I’d get back to figuring out the key to his amazing disposition.

“So, let’s just say you’ve been selected to go up in space and save the folks at the space station but Professor Wiseman remembers you don’t have four hands so she sends your monkey instead,” I’d begin.

“Uh-huh” he’d say.

“And, for some reason they lose contact with your monkey while he’s orbiting earth. How would you feel?”

“I’d just be concerned about George’s feelings—I would imagine he’d be scared.”

“But you wouldn’t need to calm your nerves with a quick shot of vodka?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And suppose you find out that the entire commuter rail system is off track because George messed with the signals while you assessed sandwich sizes. Would you feel embarrassed?”

“I think most people understand that a monkey is not a professional train conductor.”

That’s a good point.

Maybe that’s his secret.

The Man looks at George’s curiosity as an expression of his nature, not as a threat to the decorum of the adult world. And, The Man doesn’t waste much time worrying about what other people think of him as a parent/friend/fictional cartoon character.

He’s free to be moved by George’s curiosity instead of trying to contain it—he’s upbeat, and forgiving, and energized to see the next day through George’s eyes.

“I’ve never seen you send George to time out,” I’d say as he and George head out the door.

“I’m the Monkey-Dad,” he’d say, tipping his hat a bit and striking a John Wayne pose, as he so often does, of casual contrapposto.

“Monkey-Dad, I have much to learn from you,” I’d say. “Ever thought about writing a book?”

Hum. A book by The Man with the Yellow Hat. Now that’s something to think about. And, I would think about it, too....after I cleaned up the damage George and my daughters did to the basement.

Photo of red carpet:

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Altinorumcekredcarpet.jpg

Photo of Yellow Hat: from a costume, which you can order.

A Stay-at-Home Mom's Moment of Truth

2011-02-20T22:04:00.000-05:00

A few days ago I woke up and realized I was a housewife.

I am not sure how I missed that fact, but I think it has something to do with being so busy calling myself a stay-at-home mom. And, really, unless they’re on a reality TV show, most women don’t reach into the milieu of years past, sip some Sanka, dust off an Oreck and come out shouting,

“I’m a housewife!”

But maybe it would be better if we did.

I’ve been thinking a lot about being a housewife, especially since reading the 1971 preview issue of Ms. Magazine that appeared within New York Magazine forty years ago.

Jane O’ Reilly had an article in that test-run issue, “The Housewife’s Moment of Truth”. It was the piece that tallied the series of “clicks” or moments of recognition in the minds of housewives all over the country as they had “—the moment that brings a gleam to our eyes and means a revolution has begun.”

A lot has changed since that 1971 issue. For one thing, you can’t get land in Ridgefield Connecticut for $14,500. Yes, the classified section captured my attention—how could it not when discotheque music and a $10 electronic meter that measured romance while holding hands or kissing were being sold.

I was aware of my visitor’s status while reading O’Reilly’s piece, too: men calling women “broads”; both sexes debating “women’s lib” and in that pursuit, attending a “Workshop on Approaching Unisexuality”.

But the question O’Reilly asked four decades ago still cuts to the heart and vocabulary of today:

“The future improvement of civilization could not depend on who washes the dishes. Could it?”

“Yes.”

“The liberated society,” she concludes, “—with men, women and children living as whole human beings, not halves divided by sex roles—depends on the steadfast search for new solutions to just such apparently trivial problems.”

The wonderful thing about being a parent today is that many men and women have found new solutions. In the forty years since her story, there is a new generation of stay-at-home dads, a fantastic linguistic tango of men and women merging last names, a conspicuous presence of men taking paternity leave and designers making strollers, diaper bags, and gear to appeal to them. I’ve heard from couples who’ve arranged their teaching schedules to split the day and caring of their children, and who have grabbed the list of domestic chores and divided it in two. We've pretty much come to terms with the idea that neither spouse gets to “have it all” and eventually, each of us, at times, gets stuck holding the stinky end of the toilette brush.

Still, I had to wonder as I read O’Reilly’s piece, what might be learned from looking at the scenarios that triggered the “click” four decades ago:

A husband stepping over a pile of toys on the steps, asking when his wife would put them away—the woman noticing he has two hands to do the task himself; a woman abundantly praising her husband for cleaning the bathroom before they left their vacation house, only to remember that she’d been up since six preparing, too; an artist expressing her desire to carve out time to paint, something her husband supports once the paintings bring in income, which is impossible, of course, until she has time to paint.

Is this much different than the contemporary stay-at-home mom whose husband helps with the dishes, except those that don’t fit into the dishwasher because they are pots or oddly shaped pans? The husband who accompanies his wife to the grocery store every week for five years but pleads ignorance when sent there alone? The medical condition now referred to in the blogosphere as the “man-cold” which, although showing no symptoms more severe or debilitating than that strain of virus known to womankind, renders the victim bedridden?

My stay-at-home mom’s moment of truth occurred during one such bout, when my husband, who does do the dishes, and who acknowledges and supports my writing despite no promise of income, spent one day in bed, sick.

“The next time I’m not feeling well, you’ll take a personal day so I can rest, too,” I said before heading out the door for my third round of errands and pick-ups.

The idea was so radical, so outside the bounds of anything we’d ever discussed, that we were both speechless for a minute.

It was one of those rare moments that made me want to reassess what being a stay-at-home mom means—not in comparison to the public or political spheres, but in relation to the one at home—from 1971 to now.

O’Reilly had seven rules for the housewife seeking liberation:

1. Decide what housework needs to be done. Then cut the list in half.

2. Decide what you will and will not do.

3. Make a plan and present it as final.

4. Think revolutionary thoughts (such the couple who eats sandwiches while reading by the fire instead of eating dinner at the table.)

5. Never give in—“empty one dishwasher and it leads to a lifetime of emptying dishwashers.”

6. Do not feel guilty.

7. Expect Regression.

After all that, she says:

“I cannot imagine anything more difficult than incurring the kind of domestic trauma I describe. It requires the conscious loss of the role we have been taught, and its replacement by a true identity. And what if we succeed? What if we become liberated women who recognize that our guilt is reinforced by the marketplace, which would have us attach our identity to furniture polish and confine our deepest anxieties to color coordinating our toilet paper and our washing machines....What if we finally learn that we are not defined by our children and our husbands, but by ourselves?”

The stay-at-home mom of 2011 has many more opportunities to do what O’Reilly suggests as a cure for rule #6, the guilt one might feel for taking hold of these pillars: have something more interesting to think about.

Maybe that’s why we have our blogs, our entrepreneurial businesses, our positions on town councils, our weekly commitments to assist in our children’s schools. And, we and these institutions are better for it.

But are we or our sisters who work outside the home any less likely to make dinner on Saturday and Sunday nights? Or any more likely to spend hours of guiltless time reconnecting to a hobby or interest that has no point, except that it reminds us of who we were before?

It’s necessary to ask: are men any more able to do that, too? The less I work outside the home, the more my husband needs to.

The thing I took away from reading “The Housewife’s Moment of Truth” was a thread that somehow had been buried. It’s the thread that ties me to my mother, and her mother, and my father’s mother, the Phi Beta Kappa who—when my mother first met her, was ironing her husband’s shirts.

So, I send my husband’s to the dry cleaners.

I’d still like to be able to ask him, without justification or hesitation, to stay home from work when I am sick; for my friend to call it a day at 8pm because her husband has figured out how to wash the Crockpot, and, after more than two decades of using the expression, for us to look at the term “Stay-at-Home Mom” as a description of what someone is doing, not who they are.

We’re probably not on the cusp of a revolution the likes of 1971. But, I think those of us who believe in the dynamic importance of both mothers who work outside the home and those who work within it might agree that it’s about time for a new word. Why are we still using one that was coined around 1987 to describe whom we care for (our kids) and what we are not (career women)?

At least there’s something agitating about the word “housewife”. It forces us to say “Oh, no, not in the Mad Men kind of way,” or to say, “Oh, yeah, in the O’Reilly, women’s lib kind of way,” and then to think about how we’ve defined it and what we expect when we use it.

But, it's 2011.

My Stay-at-Home Mom’s Moment of Truth is that it’s time for a new word.

Post Script:
How do you get a copy of the original Ms. Preview issue?

First email your Aunt, who is a librarian, and then you go to the impressive public library in Princeton. A very helpful librarian prints out a list of local libraries that may have the issue but warns the ones who have hard copies may not actually have it. “Something that historical.....sometimes gets stolen.” It’s worth a shot, however, because your last memories of using microfiche are not very happy. Then you head off to the campus of a local University, and park at “Loser Hall,” as advised by a friend, who is also a faculty member, who adds that it’s pronounced “Lozier.” Having parked in the appropriate lot and been given a map, you walk the long path to the campus library which they let you enter even though you do not have an iPod embedded in your outer ear. You approach the reference desk, drop the name “Princeton” three or four times, omitting the “public library” part, and ask to see Volume Four of New York Magazine. They send you to the basement where you are alone with the periodicals and occasional campus tour groups, which offer helpful tidbits, especially about the copy machine. You find the row, rotate the handle, and open the stacks that lead to 1971.

Scanning the shelf you find the right volume. You take it to your desk and hold your breath. You open the book, turning the pages through October 1971, November 1971, and finally reach December 20, 1971. No one had stolen it. It was bound into the larger volume, the pages soft from age, but perfectly smooth.

You can also find parts of it online, but it's not the same.

Nature Camp for Redheads

2011-02-13T20:22:00.000-05:00

Nature camp, it turns out, is held in nature. I suspected as much, but having been out of the loop on camp, and for the most part, nature, for the last few decades, I decided I’d better confirm my hunch by attending a summer camp open house at our nearby wildlife center.

“You guys go look at the cockroaches in the terrarium, I need to speak with the director,” I told my family.

Anytime I’ve started a sentence with “cockroach” and it’s not been followed by the word “dead”, I’m a bit out of my comfort zone. It's a feeling that goes back to my younger days in Texas when my mother once asked me, at the wee hour of three in the morning, “Sarah, are you making a smoothie?”

No.

Turned out the Texas-sized cockroaches had hotwired the blender and we had to unplug the thing to stop their madness.

But I digress.

The director of the camp was seated behind a little table, set up a bit like Lucy’s booth in the Peanuts cartoons.

“I’d like to talk about ticks,” I said, taking a seat.

It was a sneak attack. I’d attended a “tea for toddlers” nature walk several months back when we dragged nets through the high grass in search of crickets. Most of us came back with ticks in our collection, which our leader accepted with equal glee.

“It’s a female!” she exclaimed, holding one up on the tip of her finger.

I am no naturalist; I’ve never thought of “blood-sucking” as a positive attribute. That, I suppose, is because of the time I baked a chocolate cake for my husband’s birthday and he spent the ensuing days in bed, pale and clammy, with a fever that defied medicine.

“Either I’ve poisoned you,” I said, looking at a mysterious red rash stretching across his shoulder, “or you have Lyme disease.”

After a few tests, and a heavy dose of antibiotics, we were relieved to confirm that there was nothing wrong with my baking.

“Ah,” the director said, gathering her ideas, “we do teach the children to check each other for ticks, and recommend parents do the same each night at bath time.”

Fair enough.

Puddle Jumping? Wings and Things? So much to talk about.

“What about bee stings?” I asked.

“Is your daughter allergic?”

Clearly, the director had not caught my drift, which was to focus--as I often do-- on hypothetical non-issues, that may or may not take place sometime a half year away.

“No,” I explained, “she’s not allergic to bee stings.”

Silence.

“It’s actually.... against state law.... for our counselors to carry an EpiPen. You’d have to be prescribed that by your doctor. You could bring in some Benadryl and we’d keep that in our kit for your child...just in case.”

That was the kind of inside information that made coming out in the rain the day before the Super Bowl entirely worth it. Assuming the generic version of Benadryl had not been recalled by mid July, I would definitely bring a bottle.

At this point the director was looking slightly uncomfortable, and I think she suspected I was a mole---and not the kind eating earthworms out by the shed.

I couldn’t stall any longer. I got right to the 64,000 SPF question.

“You’re outside a lot, aren’t you, during these camps?”

“Almost all day.”

“May daughter’s a redhead.”

Finally, the director read my mind. She lowered her voice and leaned closer.

“We have some kids who arrive the first day in long sleeves and pants,” she said, “and...they usually don’t feel so well by the end of the day.”

I stood slowly, thinking about what she'd said. No matter the freckles, no matter the propensity to go from pale as a marshmallow to red as a Twizzler, it would have to be short sleeves and shorts.

I thanked the director and took a brochure.

“Mom,” my daughter yelled, returning from the cockroach tank, “they have a little display on what you should wear to camp!”

Had the Painted Turtle finally agreed to wear Teva's?

I never found out. Whatever was modeling the summer camp gear apparently had a backpack.

A backpack.

The sign of independence.

All brave, big, explorers wear backpacks.

And, mine will also wear a bit of natural bug repellent, SPF 45, a hat, and socks up to her belly button.

But, one thing I sincerely hope she won't wear is her mother's fear of nature camp.

Photo credits: Butterfly: Uwe H. Friese Bremerhaven, Germanyhttp://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Schmetterling_1a_neucc.jpg

Redhead: LBM, with the help of a very patient daughter and photoshop

Girl Scout Cookies: The Foodie Mom's Paradox

2011-02-06T20:53:00.000-05:00

“I wouldn’t eat a reduced fat, diet cookie if my life depended on it, but I’ll eat three Peanut Butter Sandwich cookies in a heartbeat.”

This from a friend, who made me pledge like a Girl Scout, that I would not reveal her identity.

The topic was no so much calorie watching, as “bad ingredient” watching, and the subject was one of paradox: how can you bake homemade bread everyday for three weeks, never be without a quart of homemake chicken broth in your freezer, regularly make coffee cake from scratch, and spend as much time online with baking expert Dorie Greenspan as some people spend on Facebook and still.....you know, sell and eat Girl Scout cookies?

“Honestly, I don’t even sweat it,” my friend told me when I asked. There is so much “crap” out there, she said--so many school events when someone brings juice boxes with high fructose corn syrup, so many yogurts that should be labeled, “pudding” and so many more times that her family perseveres and eats what’s healthy, that “I put this in with the 10% of our diet that’s... well.....” well, not as good.

What does she see as the dilemma with selling cookies?

“It’s more of a logistical drama. It’s 11 degrees outside; my daughter has a cold and rehearsal. How is she going to find time to sell these cookies?”

Her eighth grader does find time to sell them, and by design, with very little help from her mom. Being a Girl Scout has been a positive experience for both mother and daughter, and cookie sales have significantly offset the cost of yearly trips, or, as with this year, a planned service project to help heart patients.

This anonymous Foodie mom likes the nostalgia of the cookies, the taste of a select few (Thin Mints, Peanut Butter Sandwich and Lemon) and is willing to admit that her outgoing daughter has developed a sales strategy at odds with political correctness, but not reality:

“She told me she prefers to sell to dads. They usually have no clue if their wife has already ordered some and they’ll buy seven boxes. And, you know,” the mom said, referring to an order form “her data supports that.”

Down the road a bit, and a few years more junior in the Girl Scout-Mom experience is Dolores Eaton, who is ok with my using her full name, although perhaps a moniker is just as appropriate: 4 oz juice box.

It was one of those that she picked up at my oldest daughter’s first birthday party when she said, “You know, this is about as much juice as a child should drink...in an entire day.”

I didn’t show her the stash of 6 oz ones I had hidden in my pantry, but I’ve often thought of her prescient warning when the dentist looks at my daughter’s cavity-inclined teeth and echoes the same philosophy.

The proponent of 4 oz was a peddler of pastry?

“The overall benefit of Girl Scouts outweigh this one issue,” Eaton said, when I asked her how she reconciled the ingredient list in the cookies they sold with the expectations she has for what she brings into her own home. Along with whole wheat pasta, nothing with high fructose corn syrup, hydrogenated oils, or artificial coloring, the packaged cookies she buys and that her kids prefer, show more resemblance to Cool Hand Luke (Newman’s own) than the industrious elves of Keebler.

Eaton would like the makers of the Girl Scout cookies to stop using palm oil, and “in a perfect world they’d change the recipe,” but when it comes to conversations with fellow moms in her troop the issue of ingredients does not come up.

“I’ve had to really learn how to walk that line,” she said, explaining how much she shares her views on food with casual acquaintances, “they’d think you’re a freak.”

Still, “Of all the clubs that are gender specific, that help build character and leadership in a safe environment,” Girl Scouts was one of the best, she said. And she is as selective with how her daughters spend their time as she is with what she’s introduced to their now self-guided food choices. “One physical activity and one club a year,” she said. Even with those parameters, Girls Scouts (and their cookies) have made the cut.

Caralien Speth, whose five month old daughter is more of a sprout and not yet a Daisy, shares a similar view. With the exception of “lasagna noodles, bread and ice cream” she makes everything from scratch--including beer.

“My daughter is only 5.5 months old, but we plan to allow her to go through Girl Scouts, and sell cookies, if she chooses.”

Could Girl Scouts improve their product? They could, “...use corn based plastics that are compostable...and getting rid of trans-fats (entirely) and corn syrup would be welcomed. Really, however, a little bit of “bad” ingredients annually isn’t that big of a deal if most of what you consume on a day-to-day basis is real food.”

Real food and teaching children how to recognize it is part of the mission of Christina Le Beau, a journalist who writes the blog, Spoonfed: Raising Kids to Think About The Food They Eat.

When a friend asked her if she’d like her daughter to join her Girl Scout troop, she knew enough about Le Beau's passion to say, as she described on her blog post, (Let’s Talk Girl Scout Cookies) :

“I sort of wondered if the cookie thing might be a conflict of interest.”

And, after looking into the subject, Le Beau wrote, “Our food habits are far from perfect (whatever that means). But I’d feel like a hypocrite. Or a drug dealer. Go on, tell me I’m overreacting. But, seriously, I couldn’t in good conscience let my daughter sell something I believe to be patently unhealthy."

Chris Le Beau, writer of the blog
Spoonfed, with her daughter

For Le Beau, the unhealthy nature of the food is not limited to what some of the ingredients do to the body, there’s the environmental factor of palm oil, and the associated deforestation and problems production brings.

Still, if becoming a Girl Scout became important to her daughter and joining a troop would enrich her life, she told me the cookies are not a deal breaker.

“I’d just opt out. But I would make it clear why. I wouldn’t just go quietly.”

She is not alone. The writers of the blog, Fork and Bottle wrote a post in 2008, shortly after the reduction in trans-fats, with the headline,“Still Say No To Girl Scout Cookies...” They've also included a link to a make-it-yourself Thin Mint recipe.

The Girl Scouts' cookie manufacturers have made some changes in the past few years. First, just before the FDA regulations, they limited their trans-fat to the under 0.5 gram threshold, and now, according to The Girl Scouts' website, one of their suppliers, Little Brownie Bakers, has removed partially hydrogenated oil entirely from some varieties. LBB’s website prominently touts an optimistically (if not overly so) titled informational sheet “Great News for Health Conscious Consumers.”

The Wall Street Journal reported that cookie sales, for the first time in six years, rose last year to $714 million. And, some councils have adopted a “super six” pilot program to focus on the popular sellers—Thin Mints, Samoas, Tagalongs, Trefoils, Do-si-dos, and Lemon Chalet Crème. And, for the first time this year, Scouts can advertise and market (although not sell) online.

Making a profit is not inconsequential to the health of the Girl Scouts. Of the $3.50 paid for one box of Thin Mints, about $.89 goes to the bakery and the remaining money goes to the Girl Scouts local troop and council, according to a 2011 Cookie Program Family Guide.

So, what do the Girl Scouts say when asked about the use of palm oil?

Besides stating that that their bakers and palm oil suppliers are part of the Roundtable on Sustainable Palm Oil, the official website says:

"Our cookie bakers tell us it is still necessary to use tropical oils for the production of compound coating (holding the chocolate on). Many top bakers have tried to stop using it, but without it, their products do not meet quality and production standards."

And, why don’t they, as stated in their Frequently Asked Questions, “....offer cookies that are whole-wheat, wheat-free, non-dairy, dairy-free, vegan, sugar-free, gluten-free, organic, low-carbohydrate, low-calorie, low-fat, non-fat, fat-free, etc.?”

“The demand for specialty cookie formulations is simply not great enough to make it economically feasible to offer a variety of specialty types. Of all the different possible formulations, sugar-free seems to be the most popular, yet in the past, even the sugar-free Girl Scout cookies that have been offered have had to be discontinued due to lack of demand....”

The demand, it seems, even from foodies and many, although not all, ingredient-conscious parents, is for the annual burst of nostalgia and packaged diversion that Girl Scout cookies, in all their sugared, palm-oiled, chocolate-ish-y flavor, bring.

Perhaps people like Christina Le Beau, and the movement of which she is a part, of will set a demand for a more healthful product.

But, in the meantime, the Foodie’s Paradox represents the complexity of parenting. It is not that much different than the one I find myself in when I buy a product I believe in from a store that gives money to causes I do not. Or, when, after writing several posts about the lead contamination in children’s toys, I bring home a wooden craft project that has, tucked within its interior packaging, a formaldehyde warning for residents of California.

How often do I find myself saying: “Thank God for California.”

“Thank goodness for Christina Le Beau.”

And, at the very same time, in this very complicated world of food and parenting, and raising girls, "Thank goodness for the foodies living the paradox.”

Peanut Butter Patties and Thin Mints

Ingredients: Enriched flour (wheat flour, niacin, reduced iron, thiamine, mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid) sugar, vegetable shortening (palm and/or partially hydrogenated palm kernel oils,) cocoa (processed with alkali) caramel color, contains less than 2% of high fructose corn syrup, whey, salt, leavening (sodium bicarbonate) soy lecithin, natural and artificial flavor, peppermint oil.

Making the Call: How a snow day becomes a Snow Day

2011-01-30T21:01:00.000-05:00

Somewhere in the clouds last Tuesday night, high above the houses and apartments in which little girls and boys slept, small changes in the atmosphere caused:

“...the greatest weather surprise in the last 10 to 20 years,” according to meteorologists at one local TV station.

This unexpected first wave of Wednesday's snowstorm came to my neighborhood around 6:30 a.m., early enough for six cars to slide off a road into a ditch and for a school bus to lose traction on a hill and remain stranded. But the storm arrived late enough in the morning routine for the absence of something just as significant: a snow day.

There was snow—buckets, inches, gobs of it; but there was not, a Snow Day.

“Timing is everything,” a local police chief told me when I asked him how an official snow day, or cancellation of school, is declared.

Unless the snowstorm hits early in the afternoon or evening, it’s a waiting game.

Midnight.

1:00 a.m.

2:00 a.m.

3:00 a.m.

4:00 a.m.

Some of us, awake for various reasons, peek out the window at this hour to see if a dusting has spread across the roads, but most people are sleeping.

Not so, of course, if declaring a snow day is part of your job.

“The process begins around 4:00 a.m.,” the website for the Princeton Regional Schools states. It’s around that time that administrators down the road in Hopewell Valley call the police headquarters.

The dispatcher checks in with officers in patrol cars.

How are the roads?

Whatever they report is passed back to the superintendent, who then considers the conditions in surrounding areas and the ability of teachers and staff to get to work on time, too.

By 5:30 a.m., a decision must be made.

Once it is, dispatchers at a bus company hear from the transportation coordinator.

“We get a phone call...a human calls us.”

The dispatcher then calls her drivers, one at a time---relating the news if there’s a delay or cancellation.

If there is, said one administrator at an independent school, the director of communication updates the school's website. Then, the administrator puts out a message through Call One that is automatically sent to parents and staff.

After that, he calls the TV and radio stations.

"I have a code I punch in.”

Why?

“Otherwise you’d have students calling the local TV station and saying school is canceled.”

When snow accumulates at night and it is clear school will be called off the following day, he's got another way to outmaneuver the strategies of students sniffing out a snow day: the announcement is never made before 10:00 p.m..

“We wait until after study hall...we learned that the hard way.”

Back to the early morning hours, administrators at smaller independent or nursery schools follow the lead of the districts they are a part of.

“I watch the local access channel,” the director of one told me, lamenting the Muzak. In the dark morning hours, waiting for reports from other schools and districts, she just hopes the drone of early morning television doesn’t put her to sleep. She somehow stays awake, and then sends messages for parents and staff through an automated service called Blackboard Connect.

Many years ago, on winter days in Maryland, my brother and I would sit by a transistor radio hoping to hear the announcement that Montgomery County schools would be closed. If they were, our morning would include the luxury of eggs and toast, reruns of "I Love Lucy", sled runs down the “hill” in our backyard, and a bit of Swiss Miss hot chocolate before I'd eventually set off to fashion another regrettable hair cut for my Cabbage Patch doll.

I had no idea what went into the decision of determining a snow day, and no sense of the work it might mean for the parents whose schedules were suddenly altered.

5 loads of laundry, 1 batch of cookies, 2 loads of dishes, 1 homemade pizza, 2 trips outside, 1 snow fort, 1 sled trail, 1 awesome batch of sloppy joes...

Banana bread, play dough, a movie, breaking up a squabble between siblings.....

These were a few of the things I heard from moms who, because of Thursday's snow day, had gotten the day "off" from work.

The next time I get a message announcing a snow day, I'll probably think a bit about the people who spent the lonely hours between 4:00 a.m. and 5:30 a.m. determining that call.

"On days like that," the assistant to one superintendent I spoke with said, when I asked her if her boss ever looked tired after a night monitoring the weather, "he comes in a bit bleary-eyed."

The other side of this story is what might happen if there are several more snow days this winter. As a story in NJ.COM reported, some districts have used up so many, they may have to make up the days on "school breaks, such as Presidents Day weekend and spring recess. After that, there’s school on the weekends." Announcing that decision to constituents sounds almost as painful as listening to Muzak at 4:30 a.m..

One Week Later...

2011-01-23T20:02:00.000-05:00

After last week, the question now is: why am I writing a post this week instead of sleeping?

When more than 200 people tell you, in no uncertain terms, that the first step to dealing with the exhaustion incurred when a child does not sleep is to find ways and moments for you, yourself, to sleep, that’s a fair question.

And I have been sleeping—downstairs while my husband takes the night shift, during "Dora the Explorer", while my two year old pushes through other children’s nap time, and in pockets here and there, whenever I can. Still, when friends, readers, and total strangers reach out in response to a question—or plea—for advice, I thought I’d write enough this week to at least say: I heard you.

I really heard you.

Lisa Belkin at The New York Times responded to my post by putting it in greater context and including it on her Motherlode column, a stroke on her part that, to me, felt like both a journalistic and magical act. All of a sudden, what had been a solitary and isolated experience became part of a larger conversation with people who, even in my most rested state, I might never meet in person. I printed the 154 comments, just as I did the comments posted on this Lunch Box Mom blog itself, and the notes sent to my private email. I put the pages in a folder, and carried it around to read while eating, or at pick-up, or before heading to bed—a collection of essential information, stories, warnings, admonishments, and support, that came at the right time.

First, there were those men and women who wrote to address the physical depletion a parent feels when he or she has experienced prolonged sleep deprivation. These were cautionary tales. The women who eventually developed seizures; a chronic disease (believed to be linked to the stress of the experience); others who had panic attacks while eating—and choked; one with neurological problems lasting longer than the child’s sleeplessness; and a dad who related three-fender benders.

There was the emotional pain--marriages, friendships, familial ties: broken.

These stories stopped me in my tracks. They were, as much as the empathy expressed alongside them, enough to wake me up from whatever pattern I was creating.

For that, I looked at the other advice sent in those emails, or posted in comments. Nap while the kid watches TV, enroll her in more (than we were already doing) daycare, trade off nights with my husband—and sleep somewhere else when I do so; get the ball rolling to find longer term escapes (a night nurse, or nanny). Co-sleeping had not gotten us much more sleep--but I was glad to know it worked for many. And, there were the wonderful and beautifully not paradoxical sentiments: to give in to the circumstances and have fortitude.

Most of the comments—and every single email sent directly to me—included a story about the writer’s child (or relative) who experienced sleep problems. Many, but not all, included a specific path towards progress, or a diagnosis that made a world of difference. Sleep apnea, sensory processing disorder, dairy protein intolerance, autism, the 1 in 20 million case of being born with liquid in the inner ear, or the unique case of an adopted child whose body contained excessive amounts of a heavy metal—needing to be cleansed; others with iron deficiencies discovered only when taken to a hospital for a comprehensive sleep study. Fixes included craniosacral work, crying it out with a lock on the door, melatonin, boring the kid with Masterpiece Theater, or exhausting them with running the stairs of an apartment building.

There were the comments posted from the other side of the spectrum—the readers who were bad sleepers when they themselves were children, or who knew people who were. The young woman who learned to swaddle herself and those who eventually used their hours of wakefulness to be highly productive. Along those lines, there was the advice to help Ava be as independent as possible, chiefly, through books and the ability to read. And, with our work with Ava now, it seems the stories about children with active imaginations, who need both intense interaction and physical exhaustion during the day, and specific coping strategies to unwind at night, children, who with age and ability, become better sleepers, were consistent with what we’ve seen in our own staggered progress.

I was struck with a deep sense of connection to the readers who wrote to say they’d “been there” that “it will get better,” and in the meantime, to find ways to sleep and “hang in there.” I laughed out loud as though I was separated from birth from the woman who wrote to say that her first thought when she felt dizzy and disoriented from sleep deprivation was to think she was being poisoned from carbon monoxide. And, I thought about what it meant that one woman, whose pre-teen now sleeps at least nine hours a night said, “I still remember that light-headed, walking on eggs feeling only too well—I suspect it will haunt me to the end of my days.”

I am deeply grateful to the people who posted comments or sent emails. They didn’t have to, and certainly what they recounted were either hard-won strategies, or memories that would have been easier and less painful not to revisit. Still, they reached out—they wrote, they helped.

Becoming sleep deprived is like walking into a forest at dusk. One bad night becomes two bad nights; two bad nights become a week; a week becomes a month, and months become years. By the time you realize you are alone in the dark, too disoriented to find your way out, it’s too late to look for a map. I wonder what parents might be given before their child is born (even if it’s their second, or third) that could establish benchmarks and strategies in the event they find themselves in this part of the woods. Something that takes the subjective, emotional part out of assessing one’s own level of depletion and makes it as much a part of our discussion of child rearing as post-partum depression. Six months, nine months, 18 months, 24 months in—how are you doing? How much sleep are you getting? If it’s less than x, then here’s what we do. Not for the kid—but for you.

Along those lines, as I’ve drifted off to sleep, I’ve had a version of a Utopian dream. Some people already live in communities that might offer this, or have a network of friends who “care-share” or belong to churches that have something similar, but as far as I know, it’s not popular in my area.

In our conspicuous age of parenting, when we have classes for every age and interest, and gadgets for every need, why don’t we address the physical and emotional needs of parents and have buildings—parts of a hospital, a church, a gym or center like those built for seniors or teens—designed specifically for parents or caretakers that is free from the distractions of home?

Here you could drop your kids off at the child care center and then retreat to a room with cots. You could sleep for two hours, or go to the library and read the paper, or to the café and eat a meal sitting down, or go to the auditorium and hear a lecture. Then, at the end of those two hours, you’d pick up your kids.

And, life would go on.

And, now, because I heard you and I listened, I am going off to bed.

Hitting the Wall: What it Feels Like

2011-01-16T21:37:00.000-05:00

If you've already read this post and are looking for an update, please click here.

Having had two panic attacks in the last ten years, I am no expert, but I have learned two golden rules:

1) It’s better not to take yourself to the emergency room of a New York City Hospital when you can pop a Benadryl and berate yourself in the comfort of your own home.

2) When pulling your jogging bra off in a panicked effort to get more air, it’s best to check your proximity to the men’s locker room first.

The panic—or sensation that I could not breathe and was near death—occurred last Sunday a few minutes after I had the very real feeling that I was about to collapse or pass out. It turns out that after two and a half years of bad sleep, and four months of really bad sleep, at the hands of a clinically diagnosed “bad sleeper” of a child, a mom can lose it.

The first thing I’ve lost is the feeling that I am sleepy. I am so chronically tired that I am no longer tired.

The second thing I’ve lost is my appetite.

I’ve also lost my patience, at times my optimism, my concentration, and my “free time,” but losing my appetite is probably what led to the loss of a third thing in my life—equilibrium. Equilibrium in the literal sense—I got dizzy and almost collapsed. And equilibrium in the emotional sense---the dizziness made me panic and I lost my peace of mind.

All this manifested in the last five minutes of my beloved Zumba class, during which I was dancing to one of my least favorite songs, the kind of tune that, even on the best of days, makes me want to leave the room.

On this day I fled.

I grabbed my kids from the child care area, made my way to the front desk of my gym and sought out the most maternal and competent looking person I could find.

“I feel like I am going to pass out and I want you to know who I am,” I told the woman.

She suggested I take a seat, calmly handed me a chocolate covered LUNA bar and a cup of water and searched for my file.

I didn’t know if I was actually going to faint, but if I did, I wanted someone to call my husband and look after my kids until he arrived. My oldest knows our home phone number---a relic my husband never answers, much less checks messages on, and my youngest knows that she is “2 years old” and is in love with Tyrone from the Backyardigans, but when it comes to identification, I’d say that’s about as far as it goes.

“Two a’s and two f’s” I muttered. The bane of a woman married to a man with a Dutch last name, I realized, was that I was going to waste my last moment of consciousness doing what I do in the more mundane moments of my life: explain to some poor listener the key to correctly spelling Vander Schaaff.

The woman found my file and I moved from feeling faint to feeling like I could not breathe.

We called my husband, who hopped in his car. She called 9-1-1 and got an ambulance on the way. In the meantime, I sipped water, tugged at my shoes, and apparently, at the annoying tank top clinging to my chest.

“Why don’t you put this t-shirt on?” another woman said, handing me a loose fitting t-shirt from behind the counter. “You’re sort of....exposing yourself.”

So, that was why the men sitting in the chairs near their locker room had put down their copies of US News and World Report.....

I put the t-shirt on overhead and slipped my jogging bra off beneath. As much as I breathed, I felt like I was getting no air and that the next breath would be more restricted than the first. My hands shook, my stomach felt queasy, and even as I continued my slow conversation with the helpful team who had now surrounded me, I felt lost in another place.

The EMTs arrived before my husband.

They checked my blood pressure; my chest; my lungs.

“When was the last time you ate?”

I’d had part of a muffin walking through the grocery store at 8am that morning.

Then I remembered I’d not had lunch the day before. Or the day before that. Or the day before that.

“I haven’t been sleeping much,” I said.

“Since when?”

It’s been particularly bad since August of last year, but it all started......oh, I don’t know.....shortly after I went into labor on June 18, 2008.

I sometimes wonder what it would take to start to chip away at the deep fatigue I feel. An article in Scientific American on accumulated loss of sleep, something called sleep debt, suggests that it would not take a single night or two of sleeping well. You have to look at the larger deficit, which since Ava’s latest bout began in August is at least 270 hours.

It would take more than ten days of consecutive sleep to make up for that, or nine months of napping for at least an hour. Even if it were humanly or logistically possible to do either of those things, I'm not sure I would.

I am, in my own way, as stubborn as my child who does not want to sleep. I have been told that I am the “goose that lays the golden egg”, that I must take care of myself so that I can tend to my children, and that I should find a way to catch up on sleep even as I figure out a way to help Ava with her own problems, and not wait until it’s all “fixed.”

But there is a part of me that has not believed that I am vulnerable or can be tired out to the point of passing out; that does not accept that while working towards the solution with Ava, that I need a compromised, messy, imperfect coping system to make up for the losses in sleep I’ve incurred.

And partial solutions only make me more frustrated that something so simple, so essential, so basic as sleep, is such a horrendously difficult proposition in my house.

Sometimes, because I am conflicted about acknowledging the severity of our problem and because I used to teach public speaking, I like to recite to myself a passage from Lincoln—completely out of context and appallingly out of proportion:

“The world will little note, nor long remember...” .....the fact that Ava doesn’t sleep.

But, the body does.

We’ve made some baby steps, with the help of a second specialist, but until the problem is consistently solved, we have to make do with the frustrating, maddening muck of being in the middle. I have to accept an element of failure—that we are failing—and therefore, what do we do until we succeed?

It’s no longer a question of “what do we need to do to succeed?” It’s a question of “While we are trying, what do we do?”

One reader and friend, whose own child exhibited similar sleep issues until the age of 5, suggested that I end this post by posing a question to you, the reader, that can be the subject of next week’s post. What have you done? Before a solution clicked, before a child outgrew a phobia, or a problem reached a long-hoped for solution, or you decided there might not be one--What did you do to persevere while you were in the “middle?” Send your stories to me at this email.

"Fifi" the comfort object french poodle, low wattage light bulbs, relaxing music and narration, box full of treats and rewards for "good sleep" and a chart to mark our progress.

PS: The other stories this week, of course, are the painful ones coming out of Arizona, which made me turn to the insightful Gavin de Becker for perspective. He is out of the country and unable to answer the questions I sent him, but for a clear headed assessment of the world in which we’re raising our kids, his book, Protecting the Gift, is one of the best.

Photo credit: Boxing Gloves:

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Icon-boxing-gloves.jpg

Drug: Resistance

2011-01-09T22:12:00.000-05:00

For a generation that grew up with Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” campaign, it is interesting that the biggest obstacle between us and the drugs many of us crave is the American Academy of Pediatrics.

But, as we head into the lion of winter, noses dripping, coughs hacking, and our little ones sharing germs more freely than they do their toys, there is a noticeable grumbling among some parents who have finally cracked and asked, as only a Kleenex-hoarding, humidifier-using, orange juice-buying parent can: “What do we have to do to get some antibiotics around here?”

Amoxicillin, cefdinir, amoxicillin/clavulanate-- any one of the cephalosporin antibiotics that are more precious than gold for the parent whose main concern is the health of her child and the sanity of the family and not the “emerging resistance of the common pathogens” and that nitpicky distinction between viral and bacterial infection. Ah, science, that realm of specifics.

Although it’s true that many of us sit in the examination room with our children and pediatrician wondering what it would take to get her to pull out a prescription pad, to say we’re on opposite sides of the situation is not actually the case. It just often feels that way.

Dr. Robert M. Siegel, in a January 2010 article in PEDIATRICS, (Acute Otitis Media Guidelines, Antibiotic Use, and Shared Medical Decision-Making) describes the medical community’s response to the 2004 guidelines set forth by the American Academy of Family Physicians and the American Academy of Pediatrics for the treatment of the most common problem sending kids under five and their parents to the doctor: ear infections, or more specifically, acute otitis media or AOM.

The guidelines advised practitioners to be more careful in diagnosis, select narrow-spectrum antibiotics, use analgesics such as acetaminophen, ibuprofen and Auralgan instead of antibiotics unless the infection failed to clear, and endorsed an observation option. Siegel cites a study that showed a decrease in antibiotic use for AOM from 1994-2000 (before the new guidelines) which he credits to better accuracy in diagnosis, as well as another study that looked at behavior after the guidelines, showing an increase in the use of analgesics and the narrow-spectrum antibiotic amoxicillin (the type recommended in the guidelines.)

Still, the endorsed practice of “watchful waiting” and observation of the infection translates to one thing for parents: no drugs. Not the kind we think we want, anyway.

A fact that Siegel says requires more parental involvement and input, not less.

“Several groups have examined watchful waiting for AOM with a rescue or safety-net antibiotic prescription if the symptoms do not resolve. In office and emergency department settings, more than 60% of parents chose not to fill an antibiotic prescription when the child was given adequate pain control. ”

The choice not to fill the prescription is part of a larger agenda to educate parents on the risks and benefits of antibiotics and he writes, “If the use of antibiotics is to be decreased when treating AOM, physicians must immediately address the main concern and reason for the visit: ear pain.”

If you’re typically respectful of your doctor’s opinion, and the greater mission of the AAP and their guidelines, then it takes a leap of confidence or desperate anguish to finally say, “What do I have to do to get some antibiotics around here?” Especially when you have not been given the safety-net option, or when AOM is not the issue.

One reader found herself in such a position. Never, she said, in her multiple visits over the years to doctors in both New York and New Jersey, would a pediatrician prescribe an antibiotic. Finally, she sent her husband to the pediatrician with her young daughter instead of going herself.

“He’s got an MD and a Ph.D in neurobiology. We were pretty confident he could get a prescription.”

Her doctor, a brilliant and well respected practitioner, who like many in his field has stickers of farm animals on his stethoscope and does magic tricks with tongue depressors, is not so avuncular when it comes to parents’ desires for antibiotics. Did sending in Dad, a heavy-weight who can pronounce and spell Streptococcus pneumoniae and Haemophilus influenzae with the best of them, do the trick?

No dice.

The only time the reader has gotten a prescription was after failing to get one from her primary pediatrician and taking her sick child across the country to visit her family. They went to an urgent care clinic in a strip mall somewhere in Montana.

“We got an antibiotic. The improvement in her child’s condition was, “dramatic.”

I found myself in a similar situation over the Christmas holiday when my daughter was on day 28 of a sickness that had vacillated in intensity but included: five days of fever, two days of bloody ears, a fortnight of grumpiness and at least a lunar cycle of runny nose. The illness had, essentially, followed our Advent calendar in terms of length, but had given us far fewer chocolate surprises.

I’d taken her to the doctor three times that month, called twice with follow up questions, and then, before heading in for my fourth visit in as many weeks, was able to speak with the doctor on the phone once more.

“Here’s the thing,” I said, getting my courage, “you’re going to check her ears and find nothing. But, I want an antibiotic.”

I brought her in. He examined her. He asked her about sinus pressure. (She’s two and a half—it was an interesting exchange.) He looked at her throat. He double checked her chart—a long, well documented history of the last month.

The risk, he explained, reaching for his prescription tablet, was that we would give her medicine and it wouldn’t help. It could still be viral.

That risk, a large bottle of amoxicillin in all its bubble-gum flavored glory, was one we were more than willing to take.

Whether we needed 31 days to beat a viral infection, or the medicine combated what was in fact a bacterial one, I guess I don’t know. And, I admit, the fact that we are given antibiotics so rarely is the thing that makes them so effective whenever we are.

A Sign of the Times

2011-01-02T22:38:00.000-05:00

As I write this, I am looking at a well meaning magazine story about the Modern Stay-at-Home Mom. I am modern, by virtue of the fact that I live now, and I am a mom who stays home with her kids, so I suppose I fit the bill.

But I don’t identify with the piece.

Because layered in the story’s presentation—kicked off with a photo spread featuring a woman first dressed in a 1950’s styled silk dress and pumps, clutching a nearly naked babe and fully clothed vacuum cleaner, and then pictured in present-day jeans and sunglasses, pushing a trendy stroller and presumably a child, is the implication that that those of us who are SAHMs now are doing it because we have reached a more enlightened place than those who stayed home with their kids—or did not stay home---in generations past.

Should I feel superior to my grandmother who raised four kids, worked in a factory during World War II like Rosie the Riveter, read more books in a year than I can hope to in my lifetime, and subscribed to MS Magazine—in her late 70’s? I may be contemporary, but in her beliefs and actions in the name of equality, she was modern.

I stay home because I have reacted to an imperfect situation—work/family/childcare---by joining my generation’s “opt-out revolution.”

I admire my peers, both those who head to the office each day and those who join me in the bullpen of domestic negotiations. And I know that in an economic sense, I am excessively and exceptionally lucky to be home with my kids.

But being called Modern implies that my predecessors were old-fashioned. The times may have been, but many of the women were not.

Certainly moms who stay home now can more easily have parallel lives in other spheres, especially because of the technology of our particular era: we can write blogs, sell creations on Etsy and run philanthropies from home offices during nap time. Some maintain the contacts they built before they left careers, and many have partners who are uniquely good at understanding and respecting their contributions and versatility.

But am I more modern than the complicated but ambitious stay-at-home mom of another century, Elizabeth Cady Stanton? Or the moms of more recent times who never became famous, but raised a generation of men who have had the confidence to become Stay-at-Home Dads or support SAHMs?

In her essay, "A Mother of a Year", Stephanie Coontz cuts through the distractions of the time and gets to the heart of things. She writes of a child-care crisis, imperfect work and family leave policies, outdated and impractical school vacation and class schedules--- and the fact that “the woman who stays home faces the frightening prospect that if she gets divorced, she and her children are far less likely to regain their former income than a mother who went back to work within the first year.”

She wrote that in 1998.

I finished graduate school that year. A coincidence that makes me think that the group of women finishing college or grad school now, and the ones who couldn’t afford to go, are poised to be the next cohort to find themselves called “Modern Stay-at-Home Moms".

I know these young women because they are my daughters’ baby sitters. They are the education majors, the mechanical engineers, the graduate students in psychology, who arrive at my house and look at me---my kids running circles around my legs, my dog barking, and my eyes still droopy from a night of little sleep, and are welcomed by a, “I am so glad you’re here,” as I hand my kids off and make my escape.

I imagine they are thinking, “That is not going to be me.”

The big secret is, “Yes, it will be. You will inherit the chaos of child rearing. But, you’ll do it in your own way, and hopefully, with a little less chaos, and paid sick leave.”

Which brings me to the other side of the misnomer Modern.

To the generation of women starting their careers now, or finishing up a women’s studies class, we "modern" SAHMs are part of what has already been—lives and choices to study, observe, emulate or reject.

I know our stories are far from over.

But, it seems to discount the past, and shortchange the future, to call us modern, as if that, in itself, were a destination.

We are just one stop along the road. And, looking around, this place appears to be called 2011.

Painting by: Mary Cassatt

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mary_Cassatt_Young_Mother_Sewing.jpg

A Word from Toppa: Lunch Box Grandpa

2010-12-26T15:44:00.000-05:00

By: David Maraniss
I am the Lunch Box Grandpa. More familiarly I am the Lunchbox Toppa. Toppa is what my three granddaughters call me. Or what the two granddaughters who can talk call me. My three granddaughters are five, two, and three months. Like all granddaughters, they are precocious, of course, but the littlest one, Eliza, doesn’t talk yet. She smiles a lot, and laughs, and roots for the Packers and Vanderbilt basketball, and has a pretend morning sports radio talk show in Nashville with her dad, my son, in which she goes by the name Little Goose, but he does the talking and Little Goose does the squeaking. When the subject turns to sorry Vanderbilt football, she does the grunting and moaning.

My two older granddaughters are Jersey Girls. Heidi is five and Ava is two. Readers of this blog will recognize them as Lunch Box Mom's daughters. Ava, the two year old, has been getting more of the ink lately in the Lunch Box Mom blog because she does not like to sleep, or prefers to sleep on the lower shelf of a bookcase or in her parents’ bed than where she is supposed to sleep. This makes the Lunch Box Mom tired, and it also takes sleep time away from the utterly unheralded Lunch Box Dad, Tom Vander Schaaff, but you readers already know that. Heidi makes the blog mostly for her wondrous curiosity and ability to ask an unending series of penetrating questions beginning with the word why. There is no doubt that she is the granddaughter of a journalist, although at this point she would rather be a princess than a writer.

The writer (Lunch Box Toppa) with son Andrew,
wife, Linda, and daughter, Sarah (Lunch Box Mom) circa 1976

I became the father of Little Goose’s dad, Andrew, when I was only twenty, and Heidi and Ava’s mother (Lunch Box Mom) danced into the world when I was only twenty-four, so my wife Linda and I are not new to this game of parenting, though to read Lunch Box Mom you might assume that she and her friends were the first parents, or at least the first responsible parents, who ever lived. That is as it should be. Every generation reinvents the role. I love Sarah Maraniss Vander Schaaff, aka Lunch Box Mom, to pieces, and understand her every twitch and twitter to the bottom of my soul. She is an actor, and a teacher, as well as a super mom, and now she is a writer, too, something I never quite expected, and something that thrills me and would make her late grandfather, my dad, Elliott Maraniss, especially proud as the progenitor of a line of writers.

But before I get too syrupy here, and before I get back to my granddaughters and what it means to be a Lunch Box Toppa, let me spend a paragraph in the holiday season giving you a Christmas history of this Lunch Box Mom whose essays you read each week. To the best of my memory, I first made her cry on Christmas when she was about seven or eight and I gave her a wristwatch I’d bought at the last minute at a little shop inside the Pentagon subway station as I was rushing home from an interview. Even at that early age, you could not slip anything by her, she knew quality, and this watch had a cheap band. The saving grace of that Christmas meltdown was that it became iconic. Any disappointments thereafter were delivered and received in the context of my pathetic attempt to satisfy her with a faux fancy watch – every sweater of the wrong color, or shirt of the wrong style, every wrapped box containing something just plain beneath her discriminating taste (mostly picked out lovingly by her mother, my wife, the quirky saint Linda), evoked that Rosebud moment when little Sal first teared up.

Toppa with oldest
granddaughter, Heidi

That is what it is like to be a parent. That is decidedly not what it is like to be a grandparent. All the unavoidable tensions and expectations of parent-child relationships blessedly vanish. One of my books happens to be source material for a play that is running on Broadway now, and when people ask me how it feels, I compare it to being a grandparent. “It is all joy and not much responsibility, but in some sense it couldn’t exist without me,” I say. And that is the truth of the situation. We love our children unconditionally, but it is impossible for there not to be complications, large or small. The love for grandchildren is no deeper, yet somehow it seems purer, probably because it is free from the daily ups and downs of family life. We can bop in and out at our discretion. It is not my responsibility to get up in the middle of the night when Ava chooses not to sleep. When Heidi, with her boundless energy and curiosity, tires us out, we can retreat to the back bedroom or find a book to read and give her back to her mom or dad. When Eliza, our Littlest E, expresses her hunger, she needs her mother, not me.

Toppa and wife, Linda,
with youngest granddaughter, Eliza

Just as every generation reinvents parenting, every older generation discovers the unexpected joy of grandparenting. When I am in my office trying to write, brooding over a sentence or a paragraph or the shape of a chapter, absolutely nothing in the world lifts me more than getting an email attachment from New Jersey or Tennessee with the latest picture of Heidi, Ava, or Eliza. Heidi with her gorgeous red hair and radiant spirit, Ava with her sweet and tender mischievousness, Little Goose with her infectious smile. I love those three little munchkins more than I could ever express. They are the best presents anyone could ever receive. They are the frankincense, gold, and myrrh for this Lunch Box Toppa.

Yesterday, the national website Mamapedia featured the Lunch Box Mom blog post: Kids: The Last of the True, Great Old-Fashioned Book Readers. If you missed it when it ran on the blog, or want to see it on the big screen, please click here.

My Power Sweep

2010-12-19T20:38:00.000-05:00

Somewhere near the middle of LOMBARDI, the Broadway play inspired by my father’s biography, When Pride Still Mattered, about the great Packers coach, the lights go black, and an NFL film takes center stage. Set to music and slowed, it seems, the projection of Lombardi’s team running the power sweep takes on a holy purity.

49—“Red Right 49 on 2”

And, then each man does his job, calculating his opponent and responding---tight ends pushing a linebacker, right tackle slamming a defensive end, offensive guards arcing behind the line of scrimmage and to the right sideline, and Jim Taylor running to daylight.

“Position by position, Lombardi went through as many as twenty defensive possibilities, offering his players a logical response to each of them. Some coaches considered innovative, might have twenty plays but no options for any of them; Lombardi, sometimes mischaracterized as unimaginative, preferred one play with twenty options. It was a variation of the Jesuit concept of freedom within discipline. The sweep again symbolized the philosophical lineage from Ignatius of Loyola to Vince Lombardi, both said to be limited to one great idea, but unrestrained in the incomparable realization of it,” my father, David Maraniss, writes in his book.

I’ve seen Eric Simonson’s play three times, but lived with the phrase, “freedom within discipline” for more than a decade; since my parents first moved to Green Bay and traveled to Italy’s Vietri di Potenza in search of Lombardi’s history.

Whenever my father writes a biography, there’s usually one characteristic of the subject that hits me with particular force. I was in college at the time of his book on Bill Clinton, and you better believe my obsessively organized outlines of class lectures were inspired by some line I read about the forty-second president’s study habits.

Lombardi?

Freedom within discipline is not that far off from a phrase I’d heard, mostly in theatre classes, where those of us not born with raw genius were taught that understanding a framework, knowing the craft, having a system, allows for spontaneity and creativity. Repetition, discipline. Then freedom.

And, maybe the same can be said in motherhood.

Something moved me when the December issue of Martha Stewart’s Living arrived in my mail. There was Martha, dressed in silver, and inside, there was the headline—one cookie recipe, thirty variations.

I was a fast convert, Xeroxing the recipe and sharing it with friends, talking it up at the library, in the parking lot of my daughter’s school, to anyone who would listen.

The simplicity. The beauty. The brilliance of the idea. Something to bring efficient order to the chaos of the season.

The chaos of life.

I bought the flour, the butter, the eggs, vanilla and sugar needed for the basic recipe. I bought the add-ins—the spices, the chocolate, the citrus—needed to make the variations. I bought the boxes, the ribbon and the stickers I wanted so that I could package up these expressions of freedom within discipline and give them to my friends.

I baked. One dozen. Two dozen. Four dozen. Seventeen Dozen. The kids could watch, but this was my project. I spent most of a day standing in the kitchen, holiday music coming from a radio, calling out plays to my husband and kids, “time for breakfast, time for lunch, someone needs to walk the dog.”

My basic vanilla recipe was tweaked to become lemon. Later, chocolate balls. Still later, spice. Half the lemon got dipped in glaze, and were reborn into beautiful stars.

The kitchen was filled with measuring cups and pans, cooling cookies and tissue paper filled boxes. But, it was not chaos. I had one recipe. One basic pattern with eggs, butter, sugar, and flour. From there, there were possibilities. It was not overwhelming, it was simple.

It was occupational therapy for my state of extremes—being pulled by the needs of a five year old, a two year old, a nine year old dog, and a very supportive and overworked husband---and the thirty-six year old inside of me.

This Christmas night, while my husband assembles a train table and my mother makes hot chocolate for my girls, I will be riding a New Jersey Transit with my father to see the 8 o’clock show of LOMBARDI, one more time.

I’ll get chills when the lights dim, and the projection of the Packers power sweep takes over the theater. But, there’s another moment in the play that usually gets a laugh, but strikes me as equally significant.

What does Lombardi do at night when he’s not watching footage? What does he do to relax?

He reads cookbooks.

There’s nothing like reading a recipe for a nice “glazed ham,” is there?

With Dad in front of the theater, Circle in the Square.

An Offer You Can't Refuse

2010-12-12T20:34:00.000-05:00

Last year, a bearded portly guy came to town and made me an attractive offer. He’d get my kids to behave if I built him up to be some kind of present-giving hero. Never mind that he employed unpaid elves and a team of mutant flying reindeer, what bothered me were the terms of his bargain: If the kids behaved, then he’d dole out presents. If they didn’t, well then...you don’t want to know.

Was this really ethical? How about the diminutive spies he sent out, code name, Elf on a Shelf, who watched, big brother like, and filed nightly reports on household behavior?

Was this all in the spirit of Christmas, or just a way to bribe and threaten my kids?

A year ago, I sincerely wanted to know. I wrote to the British philosopher and author, Alain de Botton, and asked him about the use of Santa Claus to encourage good behavior. He is a father himself, and wrote back to say:

My feeling is that using Santa is utterly fine and ethical.

The reason is that any parent has such a hard time disciplining children that the self-discipline that comes from Santa is actually of the mildest, gentlest sort and preferable to the more hard-headed alternatives (naughty step etc.).

Also, children are not capable of ethical choice right now, so the claims of Santa are not an alternative to ethical thinking; they are a pre-ethical way of maintaining order and a modicum of calm.

I don't think that kids do take away from the Santa= present equation the idea that being good gets a material reward (as many psychologists argue). They take away the broader underlying point, which is that being good leads to good things.

Author and Philosopher
Alain de Botton

The trick in the teens is then to suggest that good things encompasses far more than material advantages. But that's definitely for a later stage.

If you can believe it, I have even had to resort to the idea of a friendly sleep ghost in order to lure my four year old not to get up at 3am every morning.

With very good wishes,

Alain

Oh, Alain, your words now, as did your books The Consolations of Philosophy, and How Proust Can Change Your Life have come at the right time. Soon, I might need to conjure up my own friendly sleep ghost, but in the meantime, for a short while still, I do have Santa.

May he do his best.

His elves can wiretap for all I care.

If the Easter Bunny has some free time and wants to swing by and offer a carrot, he has my permission. Tooth Fairy—we haven’t officially met, but given the force with which my oldest is yanking at her tooth, I expect we shall soon—you are welcome to sprinkle a bit of goodwill dust in the air. My kids and I have been known to have breakdowns and meltdowns from time to time, and you fanciful entities, as Alain de Botton suggests, do seem a lot less harmful than the cast of characters I have assembled in my situation room right now.

My go-to team of advisers?

First, there’s Captain High Fructose Corn Syrup, found principally in lollipops, a stash of which I was unfortunate enough to win. She and her pops have been used primarily to get my young troops moving—out of the house, through the front door, and into my car, by which time the HFCS treats have been licked, crushed, and devoured by the highly energized children who carried them.

Second, there’s General George the Curious and his colleagues in a remotely controlled region of PBS, who, as far as I can tell, is financed by me and the viewers like me.

Third, in the high range of my register, and in the depths of my bowels, is a voice called, Mommy’s Losing It, that has been known to make telemarketers cry, delivery men flee, and occasionally, get an obstreperous child to follow directions.

Fourth is an agent who likes to keep a low profile. And, to be fair, this deputy of nocturnal sanity is not often called to the table. Only rarely, when all other measures fail and the risk of not using him is greater than the risk of overuse, say on the fourth day of a cold, or first day of an eczema outbreak, does Benjamin “Ben” A. Drill come down from a cabinet.

So, Santa, you show up once a year and then split. Do you think it’s worth keeping you briefed on matters of domestic civility? Worth financing your bag of toys? Worth touting your hyperbolic blacklist of naughty children? Worth feeding your milk and cookie addiction?

If you could help me with a few things on my personal wish list (getting the youngest to sleep, the oldest to stop asking to wear high heels) then, I’d say yes.

What about my ethical concerns? My hesitancy to make a deal with such a masterful manipulator?

I’m in my second term as Parent.

I’m a realist.

I firmly believe in Santa.

Parentem Civi

2010-12-05T21:16:00.000-05:00

There is a world of difference between raising kids in a city and fifty miles outside of one.

This realization slapped me in the face and spun me around like a tourist on the Central Park carousel when I arrived in New York with my husband and kids for a four day visit. We pushed our stroller (fully equipped with snacks and two kids it weighs 70 lbs) eight miles a day and observed an alternative universe of parenting. Elevators instead of stairs; sidewalks instead of carpools; giant parks with wonderful swings—and five hundred of your newest friends; bodegas and gourmet grocery stores instead of acres of aisles in one Stop & Shop, and everywhere, a constant hum of traffic, whistles, jack hammers, and language. We were never more than a few blocks from a bookstore, or museum, or landmark, which made the experience of feeding, entertaining, or attempting to enlighten our children both simpler and more complicated.

Long before Ava (right) was born, Tom and I,
along with a mouse, shared a tiny apartment
in this building on E. 83rd.

But, the parents who called this environment home looked calm and seasoned, having adapted fully to the city—walking their kids to school against the construction of Second Avenue, carrying a soccer ball for a pick-up game a few yards from the Met, and eating breakfast at 8am on a Sunday at a kid friendly spot like Big Daddy’s--strollers parked with balloons attached, and coffee mugs stretched out, ready for a free refill. Whatever challenges and frustrations they faced appeared to come from the children they’d created, more than the city in which they were raising them.

"How do they do this?" I wondered. Until our visit, I hadn’t realized my skills in parenting had evolved in relation to a specific environment. But, here I was, surrounded by a familiar but distinct type of city parent—a Parentem Civi—against which I might only be classified as a close relation, that minivan driving, Parentem Extracivi, distinguished, among other features, for her ability to buy 48 rolls of toilette paper and stash them in closets throughout her suburban house.

The Parentem Civi, in contrast, had developed the instincts to fasten a car seat in a moving cab, cross four lanes of traffic with three kids in tow in less than twelve seconds, fit an entire week of groceries in the bottom of a stroller, and manage, most impressively, to get her dog to pee on a four inch expanse of sidewalk grass while breastfeeding a newborn in a sling.

We are reminded, especially on the Internet and Facebook, of our similarities. And, we are, virtually, very similar. In reality, though, on the pavement of Manhattan, or the freeway of Los Angeles, or in the parking lot of the Mall of America—we might say that, even if we are in the same place or phase of parenthood, we are in extremely different places.

So, I asked a few experienced city moms to talk about their life raising kids in big cities. We’re going from coast to coast today—with one family living in Brooklyn, New York, and the other in Los Angeles, California.

Brad Alperin and Jody Drezner Alperin: Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn, near Prospect Park. Have lived in Brooklyn for 8 years and in their house for 5. Children: Dov, not quite 6.5 and Zoe, not quite 3.75
Why do you live in the metropolitan area? Brad works here but we also love being here. We live in a neighborhood that our friends have nicknamed 'Urban Mayberry.' We have block parties, chili cook offs, weekly stoop dinners in the summer and where you can really borrow a cup of sugar or have your neighbor watch your kids while you get dinner started. We love having that but also having easy access to all the city has to offer.

How does living in NY influence you as a parent?
If you asked some of my friends who DON'T live here, they would say it's made me crunchier, more granola and a bigger purchaser of organic products. I think the competitive nature of parenting and especially mothering are heightened in the city and I try hard to avoid that and not play in to it. I'd like to think living here has made me more flexible and more able to roll with the punches. I love that the kids are exposed to people of all different backgrounds, races, ethnicities and sexual orientation, which is not really something I grew up with. It inspires conversations and I hope those conversations help our kids have open minds as they grow. We also see a lot of economic and social disparity here and we talk about that a lot too. I like to imagine that the ideas of social justice we discuss with the kids will inspire the choices they make as they are older. We could certainly have those talks wherever we lived, but I think living in the city makes it somewhat easier.

How does living in NY influence your children or the way in which you believe they experience the world and their own maturation? Our kids are city kids, no doubt, which is funny for two people raised in decidedly non-city environments. We once went to an event at a synagogue in Westchester. To get in to the building from the parking lot, we had to cross a small stream. Dov looked at it and us and declared, 'It must have really rained here a lot! It flooded!' I think that is a good example of how being city kids shapes their world view. Things that are commonplace to non-city kids, like streams, are unique to our kids. On the other hand, things that were so foreign and somewhat exotic to me are commonplace to the kids-subways, national landmarks and the like. They have a certain amount of street savvy I think but I don't think they are more mature than kids their age elsewhere.

What’s the most convenient part of living in the city? If you have a hankering for any kind of food, you can always get it. There is ALWAYS something to do for us and for the kids.

What is the least convenient part of living in the city? There is ALWAYS something to do! No, really, things that I think are more simple elsewhere are a pain here. Running a whole series of errands with both kids in tow and without the car. Getting somewhere quickly with a three-year-old and no car. Picking up two kids from two different schools at the same time with no car. Can you tell we have a car? (They do—it stays parked in their driveway)

What is one thing that people (or family) who do not live in the city probably don’t understand about raising kids where you do? When I went to my high school reunion in NC one of my classmates said 'I feel so sorry for y'all living up there in those tiny apartments.' But we really don't see it that way. Would I like a bit more counter space in my kitchen? Sure, but I don't daydream about a 4,000 square foot house and some of our family and friends seem to think I ought to. I think people imagine a very cold and hostile New York when they think about raising kids here and our experience has been the polar opposite of that.

What is something about living in the suburbs that mystifies you?
Do you have impromptu playdates? Or do you have to schedule everything? Do you have to drive everywhere? As much as I complain about running errands without a car, we do like being able to walk or bike or take the bus or train places too. Does the sheer amount of stuff in the grocery stores there ever make you feel like you can't breathe?

If a new family was moving to your neighborhood from the suburbs—what advice would you tell the mom if she said she was feeling overwhelmed by the pace and largeness of the city?
I think the key is to make connections. If you have small kids, join a mother's group that meets in your neighborhood. If your kids are older, perhaps get involved in a project at their school. Meeting other people makes your world tighter and more manageable, I think even if the initial people you meet end up not being a great click for you, they do help bring some shape to the overwhelmingness of the city. Also, don't try to do too much at once. If you are used to driving everywhere but are now using public transportation or walking, your times for doing things are going to differ now. The kids don't need to do three exciting activities in a day-if you make it to a playground, they are happy! Also, use a babysitter sometimes if you can. Go back and see that exhibit your kids ran past on the way to their favorite part of the museum or catch a show. Take some time to explore the city without your kids too and you may find more things to like about it.

Alyson and Cody, Westside of LA, a few miles from the beach. In Condo for 6 years, in LA for 12. Child: Brett will be 3 in March.

Why do you live in LA?
Work is the main reason, (Cody works in Television) but the longer we stay here, the more it feels the right place for us in so many ways. We love our friends and Brett's friends. The diversity, the culture, the beach, the mountains and all the opportunities that are available to us year round. Oh and the weather, we love the weather.

How does living in LA influence Brett or the way in which you believe he experiences the world? Well in an ideal world, I hope that living in an urban environment will help Brett to be an open-minded individual, because he interacts with a wide variety of children and adults. But it's not a given. There are plenty of city kids who have a more rarefied existence than those living in the suburbs or in a rural area.

What’s the most convenient part of living in a large city? The access to museums, parks, events, friends, trains, car shows, etc, etc. I've visited more of the above since Brett was born, than I have in the 10 years before that, and there are still so many to visit. I love feeling like the options are limitless and many of them are incredibly affordable or even free.

What’s the least convenient part of living in a large city? The lack of space. I wish we had a larger living space and a yard. And the schools. We're in LAUSD (Los Angeles Unified School District), the 2nd largest school district in the country and I feel like it's going to be a part-time job to navigate it successfully. And I do wish we had more nature in our lives, but I feel fortunate to be close to the beach and the Santa Monica Mountains.

What’s one thing that people (or family) who do not live in the area probably don’t understand about raising kids where you do?
I think most people think about space and schools, and those issues often motivate people to get out of the city and into the suburbs. One thing that has occurred to me as a stay at home mom in the city is that I am incredibly stimulated by my surroundings. Life is never dull, but maybe that's the case everywhere....

When you return to the city after a trip away, what’s the first thing Brett wants to do that he’s missed on vacation? His trains. His friends. The beach.

If a new family was moving to your neighborhood from the suburbs—what advice would you tell the mom if she said she was feeling overwhelmed by the pace and largeness of the city?
I would encourage them to make the big city a small city by getting involved and finding a local neighborhood based MOMS Club, volunteer at the preschool or enroll in a class (oftentimes the ones through the city are affordable and full of stay at home moms) where she and her kids can meet like minded people. And if the first or second one isn't a fit - keep looking. The upside of living in a city is the amount of options, so keep looking for the right one until you find a fit.

Kids: The Last of the True, Great, Old Fashioned Book Readers

2010-11-28T21:59:00.000-05:00

Our kids might be the last of the true, great, old-fashioned book readers. I don’t mean as a generation, although that might be the case, I mean Childhood might the last sacred phase in which reading a paper, board, or anything other than of electronic, book is still commonplace.

This unsettling thought struck me as I walked the aisles of a Borders Bookstore looking for Christmas presents. The store was having a Going Out of Business Sale, which even in my distracted state of motherhood struck me as an obvious clue that times were a-changing. A year ago, I would have looked for a biography, history or a few silly paperbacks by Christopher Moore that send my husband into fits of laughter even on mass transit—but not this year. He’s moved on to his e-reader and giving him a bound book, as much as I still gravitate to them, and as easy as they are to wrap and place a bow on, would be like giving a seventeen year old keys to your horse and buggy.

The modern world has arrived.

But, giving a child a real book still has great significance. The American Academy of Pediatrics says what most parents already know: babies and toddlers show their developmental milestones in relation to books and in part because of them. They nibble on the hard covers; turn the pages; carry them around; select a few at bedtime; notice when one is upside down; call out the names of characters; and eventually, take over “the role of storyteller”.

The promise of snuggling up to find a hungry caterpillar, or zoo-dodging gorilla, or constant moon on each page of a book is the reason most kids are willing to get out of their pre-bedtime bath.

Would this happen with an electronic reader? In a way, I suppose. But chewing on one would be like gnawing on a cell phone—not recommended--and at nearly $140 a piece, it would be expensive to scatter them around a crib the way many kids do with board books, or to create the tactile and auditory sensations of squeezing a duck’s fuzzy belly and hearing it quack.

For now, Amazon and its users seem to get that. The top selling Amazon Kindle books categorized for children are: Alice in Wonderland, Dracula (ah, that childhood favorite with fangs) and Fairytales Every Child Should Know. You can get The Truck Book, and Two Dumb Ducks, and other less dense literary fare for the device, but board books have not yet lost their currency for living up to their bluntly descriptive name.

Not so in other genres.

Several months ago, Amazon announced it was selling 180 ebooks for every 100 hardcovers. The revenue from hardcovers was still much greater than that for ebooks, but an article in Wired Magazine acknowledged the trend: the price of the Kindle was dropping (this month $139 down from $260 not long ago) and with the price of an ebook averaging about half that of a hardcover, it would take only 10 ebooks to “justify the cost” of a Kindle. Not that you need one to read an ebook. A computer or Smartphone will work, too. But the appeal of the Kindle is growing: it is the number one wished for item on Amazon this year, (according to them), holds 3,500 volumes, weighs less than a paperback, has a battery life of up to a month, and has no glare. And, now, just in time for my holiday shopping, they’ve added a feature that makes it possible to give a specific book to a Kindle user.

I will not be doing that. Maybe someday I will, but for now “gifting” my husband something that he will “upload” has all the romance, suspense and affection as giving him another year of McAfee Virus protection.

Pat Zietlow Miller who writes Read, Write, Repeat, a blog with reviews of children’s books written by her and children themselves thinks paper books are going to remain a staple in childhood reading, in part because of the institutions that foster young reading, “...Most classrooms won't be able to give every student an electronic reader, but could provide a paperback. And many kids get their books from libraries.”

My Aunt, Jean Alexander, a librarian at Carnegie Mellon University, is in the thick of the digital/paper divide.

“For a long time people said that physical books would always be around, but there are so many factors working against the physical book: closing of bookstores and libraries where you can browse, expense of publishing, shipping, storing, etc. .... I believe that parents and children love the physical act of reading to babies and children, holding them in their lap, turning the pages, and so on. I think that for children's cognitive and imaginative development reading a book is preferable to looking at something on a computer. I think children love their books the way they love their toys and blankets. They are beloved objects and friends. There is something cheap and transient about e-books, although I suppose they're convenient. It may be however that only affluent families will provide books for their children, while poorer kids will be more and more deprived.”

You don’t have to imagine life far into the future to see that play out.

From the Heart, a nonprofit that promotes literacy in children living below the poverty line along with their partner in the Los Angeles region, First Book, are working to hand kids their very own books during their annual Holiday Book Give Away.

“We give each Head Start child a book chosen especially for them,” their website says. “For most, this is the first book they’ve ever owned. We also give books to their older and younger brothers and sisters – starting newborns on the path toward a lifetime of enjoying books and encouraging teenagers who are eager to read. We believe "when you give a child a book, you give them the world.”

What world of books will I give my own grandchildren someday?

I honestly cannot imagine.

Nurse Reading to a Little Girl Date: 1895 , Mary Cassett

After a blog post, Roadkill on the Streets of Suburbia, a reader suggested I introduce the chapter book, Mr. Wellington, to my oldest daughter. Playwright David Rabe tells the story of an injured squirrel and the well-meaning boy who rescues him. We eagerly read each chapter, noticing our progress with our bookmark as we neared the end.

Photo credit: top photo http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Child_reading_at_Brookline_Booksmith.jpg

User: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Mr._Absurd

A Bad Habit

2010-11-21T21:45:00.000-05:00

A few nights ago, I went into my two and a half year old’s room and found her balanced on top of the crib railing in an effort to escape. She was afraid to drop back onto the mattress, and rightfully terrified to jump out of crib, so there she lay—like a tightrope walker in need of tummy time, prostrate on the side rail.

Except, unlike the likes of Philippe Petit, my daughter was screaming. I scooped her up and held her tight.

“Why do you do such dangerous things?” I thought.

But, this was Ava. If we hadn’t named her after my husband’s grandmother, “Danger” would be her middle name.

“Now, where will you sleep tonight?” I wondered, looking at my little mischief maker.

She didn’t want to be alone in her room, that was clear. She’d recently dropped her afternoon nap—who has time to sleep when there was fun to be had—and our evenings, especially between 1 and 3am were turning into regular negotiation sessions:

I offer: An hour of soothing, back rubbing, pep talks about her ability to go “night-night.”

She counters with screams, followed by shouts of “no, no, nooooooooo.”

“Want to sleep in our bed?”

“Uh-huh.”

End of negotiation.

But, it’s also been the end of life—and sleep--as we’ve known it.

Not getting enough sleep because someone, no matter how small, is preventing you from getting sleep is a serious problem. I’ve seen—although been too afraid to read---the studies about lack of sleep causing depression and weight gain, and I don’t need to read a study to know that it makes me grumpy and less able to concentrate. A year ago, after 18 months of problematic sleep for Ava, my husband and I turned to a wonderful pediatric nurse and sleep consultant, Meg Zweiback, who essentially gave us back our lives.

Ava slept.

I wrote.

But now, Ava doesn’t sleep.

On the night of her attempted crib escape, my husband was out of town. It was the first of what would be five days on my own with the kids and dog, which meant the days started at 5:30am and would not end until Ava went to sleep, whenever she did and wherever she might.

The rules of engagement were different with Daddy gone and she and I both knew it.

Where would she sleep? It wasn't 1am, it was not even 8pm.

“Do you want to sleep in Heidi’s room?” I asked.

It was perfectly acceptable to pass her off on her older sister, right?

We pulled the trundle out from under Heidi’s bed and she passed down a few baby dolls and her prized pink and white kitten.

If anyone could be an example of good sleep habits it was my five year old. I may have read Marc Weissbluth’s Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child, but it was she who put it into action, sleeping through the night at six months and never looking back.

Ava was delighted by the upgrade in accommodations and proud to be near her big sis. She pointed to Heidi’s bed and told me to lie down—something I was happy to do because it would give me the opportunity to observe.

Heidi eventually got quiet and fell into a deep-breathing slumber.

Ava sang musical notes—seven in succession, fed the kitty an imaginary bottle, talked to the dolls, and listened to the sound of her feet bounce against the fluffy mattress.

I ignored her; whispered to her; threatened a return to her crib; pleaded; soothed; and eventually, after more than an hour, I took her into my bedroom.

Many years ago, I had a conversation with a friend of mine who had been a nanny for more than twenty years. The big secret of American life, she told me, was that everyone was sleeping with the kids in the same room. Those big houses with all those bedrooms? The fancy furniture?

Still, they were dragging mattresses into the mom and dad’s room and sleeping on the floor.

Ava was now in my bed. She snuggled into me as naturally as a kitten. She closed her eyes and within five minutes was breathing with the same rhythmic depth as her older sister.

How will I ever find time to write? How will I eat dinner? How will I take the dog out to pee? How will I clean up the mess downstairs? How will I get this child to sleep in her own bed?

I am not sure what others feel as they jump feet first into a bad habit—that moment when they know they’ve crossed a line into a true behavior and are not just visiting it from the sideline. Maybe a smoker knows when she buys her first pack on her own, or a nail biter knows it when he looks down at his fingers—but as a mother, I knew it when I looked at the clock and it was 8pm--not 1am or 3am-- and my daughter was in my bed.

That’s official.

And, maybe that’s what it took to make me realize this habit was unsustainable.

I had twenty-four hours to figure out what to do. Twenty-four hours to find an alternative to crib-jumping and my own bed. I thought about what I’d tell a sleep consultant. What did I think might be going on with Ava’s sleep? Was she afraid of being alone? Did she want to be closer to me?

Or, as with everything else, did she want to be just like her big sister?

I don’t recommend buying a toddler bed when your husband is out of town. You have to drag it into the house, up the steps, and then, worst of all, assemble it all on your own. The instructions say it requires two people and twenty minutes. I had three (two of them under the age of six) and it took almost two hours. I would rather give birth than assemble a toddler bed like that again—labor takes less time and someone brings you a tray of food when you’re done.

Somehow, and I don’t know how, I got every piece where it was supposed to go. Tonight, when I brought Ava and Heidi up to bed, Ava took a look at her new bed and hopped right in.

“Ava’s bed,” she said, pulling the covers up.

“Time for a bath,” I said.

“Ava’s bed,” she said, pretending to sleep.

I got her jammies and decided we’d forgo the bath. So, she’d sleep with yogurt in her hair and not having brushed her teeth. If she wanted to stay in her toddler bed, who was I to argue?

I hummed “Hush little baby don’t say a word...” and she fell asleep.

The door creaked as I left her bedroom and she woke up.

I hummed again. She fell asleep.

Before I exited, Heidi knocked on the door and Ava woke up.

I hummed again. She fell asleep.

The dog barked and Ava woke up.

I hummed again. She fell asleep.

I tip toed out of her room and Ava woke up.

I hummed and hummed and almost cried and she finally fell asleep.

I left her room and went to kiss Heidi on the forehead just as a small airplane soared overhead.

I waited. Ava was quiet.

Sleep. It may have taken an hour, but this was progress.

I have to confess that I got something else besides the toddler bed today. Anyone who read my post on the Disney Princess Power/Invasion might remember my feelings about the franchise—and my general, although far from categorical, limit on the number of Disney royals I invite into our house.

What can I say?

When it comes to kicking this habit, I didn't think I could take any chances.

Big and little sister are proud of the toddler bed.
If Ava sleeps, she can have all the princesses she wants in that room.
Even if that means I just traded one bad habit for another.....